Prisoners Of Our Own Mistakes
by 2Old4This2
Summary: Sometime after Countdown. Neal finds himself in a potentially dangerous situation. Is it just the job, or is it due to something more?
1. Chapter 1

**Prisoners of Our Own Mistakes**

A _White Collar_ Fan Fiction

_Disclaimer: _White Collar _is the property of Jeff Eastin and the USA Network. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made. Trust me._

The sound of the door closing behind Neal Caffrey clanged with the hollow ring of finality. This was ridiculous, of course. The door was electronic; it slid easily into place, with only an efficient thunk to signal its closing. However, finality and permanence, those concepts rang true. Neal cringed at the pun in his own mind.

That wasn't all he cringed at. It had been painful to watch as they took his finely cut suit, silk tie, and Italian leather shoes and shoved them carelessly into a storage box along with his other personal effects. The search that followed had been painful, too, both physically and emotionally. Then the cold, disinfecting shower and the presentation of his new wardrobe – all orange.

The worst part, though, was the closing of that door behind him. It was the door that separated the intake area from the cell blocks and the rest of the prison. The door that now separated him from the life he had just begun to appreciate. He even missed the tracking anklet. He was back inside.

Four hours later it was like Neal had never left. Well, maybe that was stretching a point, but the readjustment was easier than he expected. He'd already encountered a few of his acquaintances from his last stay, and while they weren't exactly glad to see him, they were civil. He had a cell to himself, and no one had tried to stick a shiv in him. Yet. Now, reclining on his thin, lumpy mattress, he had time to consider how he came to be here. Was this only to be expected after the mess he'd made of his life? He replayed the conversation he had with Mozzie in his head, looking for an answer.

ooOoo

"Are you crazy?" Mozzie's voice rose sharply, in direct proportion to the level of his disbelief. "You aren't serious. You can't be. No one would willingly allow themselves to be put back inside. Certainly no one would volunteer!" Mozzie paused for breath. He looked carefully at his friend's face. "You know, you don't owe the suits anything."

"I didn't volunteer, exactly, but I really couldn't say no. Not now. And yeah, Moz, I do owe them. At least I owe Peter." Neal walked to the sideboard in his small kitchen and went through the wine bottles collected there. Reading the labels, he selected a dry red and poured himself a generous serving. No, he thought, he really wasn't in a position to say no to anything right now. Not while Department of Justice was watching every move he made, reviewing every case he and Peter closed. And then there was Peter, who he had betrayed. Peter who wouldn't trust him; who couldn't trust him yet, he realized. If Peter wanted him to go undercover in prison, well that's what he'd do.

"Wouldn't it be easier if the suit just shot you?" Mozzie bypassed the wine collection, locating the gin bottle and pouring himself a healthy dose. He hurried out onto the terrace with both bottle and glass, as if there weren't enough air in the apartment.

"Peter doesn't want me dead, Mozzie. He just wants me to do my job. That's what I'm going to do." Neal joined his friend outside, admiring the view of the city, trying not to think about the small cell which would soon be his temporary home. That cell had seemed awfully small the last time. He was afraid it was going to feel even smaller this visit.

"This isn't like the last time, Neal," Mozzie continued seriously. "This time your not just a convicted felon . . . you're a nark, a snitch." He gulped down half a tumbler of gin.

"Maybe, but right now I'm the guy who stole a priceless treasure and got a highly respected agent's wife kidnapped. That's the reason why everyone will understand I'm back in. As punishment. That ought to cover things."

"Hah!" Mozzie threw back another swig of gin. "I'm sure there are people there who want you dead."

"Moz, Peter and the Bureau worked it out with the Department of Corrections. The guards will know why I'm really there. They'll watch out for me. The warden knows too. It'll be fine."

"Hah!" he said again, gazing mournfully into the bottom of his empty glass. He reached for the bottle and refilled. "Why do they need you undercover in prison?"

"Apparently forged credit cards are coming out of there. They need someone on the inside and I'm the obvious choice." Neal sipped his wine thoughtfully. "The whole thing's pretty brazen, it shouldn't take very long to figure this out. I'll be through and back here in a week." He took another sip and turned to face his friend. "It won't be that bad. I won't be in any danger."

"Where's Keller?" Mozzie's eyes were deadly serious now.

"Nowhere near here. He's not even in New York State. He's someplace seriously secure."

"Guantanamo?" Mozzie asked hopefully.

Neal gave a quick snort. "Okay, maybe not that secure."

"Then you're still in danger, my friend."

ooOoo

Neal really didn't think he was in any danger from Keller. Wherever Keller was, he was in isolation, all of his communications either cut off or carefully monitored. All of his bank accounts were being carefully monitored, too. No, Keller wasn't a threat, but he wasn't quite so sure that was the case with some of the other inmates.

By and large, the people he had helped the FBI capture were nonviolent, just like he was. Yes, there were a few exceptions. Wilkes probably wasn't too pleased with his current living arrangements. Joseph Ganz might be a tad put out with him. Oh, and there was Frank De Luca, Jr. and his mob buddies; but they probably wanted Mozzie more than him. Besides, the FBI and the warden both knew all this. No, he wasn't worried. He'd just be careful and figure out the credit card scam quickly.

"Hey, Neal!"

Lying still, looking at the blank institutional walls and listening to the constant background hum of prison life, Neal was surprised to find he'd actually dozed off. Working with the FBI was making him lose his edge. That edge was what kept him alive. Maybe he should work on that.

"Hey Bobby!"

The guard stood outside Neal's cell, looking in with a combination of curiosity and mild concern on his oddly gentle face.

"You're back."

Neal wasn't sure if that was a statement or a question. He answered the statement.

"Yup. Some places are hard to stay away from."

Bobby gave a brief snort. "I thought you knew better by now."

Judging by my recent past, obviously not, Neal thought. "So I guess you heard about the art?"

Sounds of an altercation farther down the cell block drew Bobby's attention. He shifted his weight and started in the direction of the noise. "Everyone's heard, man. We've got to talk. I'll try and come by later." With a last glance over his shoulder at Neal's prone form, he headed away.

Neal sat up on his bunk and watched the large man disappear. He hoped what Bobby meant was that he knew why Neal was really there. Having the guard on his side could only be a good thing.

Neal walked over to the small desk bolted to the wall of his cell. He picked up the paperback novel he had brought with him and sat back on the bunk, propped himself against the wall, and started to read. It was a police procedural. What had he been thinking?

ooOoo

Sara Ellis set her empty wineglass down on the table with a snap and stood. She walked across the room and turned off the stereo. On her way to the sliding glass doors, which were now filled with the rosy glow of sunset, she stopped to consider her empty glass and the bottle standing next to it. She refilled the glass and headed to the doors, opening them to the cooling evening air and the sounds of Manhattan several floors below her small balcony.

Her small space couldn't compare to the spacious rooftop terrace of June's mansion but it certainly served the needs of a woman living alone. She caught herself in a sigh and mentally shook herself. Leaning against the wall of the balcony, a pose all too similar to another person's stance, she gazed between the two buildings across the street at a sliver of the Hudson River beyond. Her apartment with a view.

She had no reason to be displeased with her apartment. The apartment had been lovely before the renovations and now it was just about perfect. No, she was very happy with her home. It was her life that she wasn't satisfied with.

She took another sip of her wine, a rather large sip, and settled back into the wrought iron chair in the corner of the balcony. The metal felt cool through the thin silk of the copper colored tunic and loose pants she wore. The light evening breeze molded the soft fabric to the contours of her body; too bad there wasn't someone there to admire the effect, she thought.

She had seen that someone, the only someone she even considered now, exactly twice since he had recovered from the injuries he sustained while trying to free Elizabeth Burke from the clutches, (clutches, really?) of Matthew Keller. Both encounters had been in his apartment, both times it had been completely casual, and both times had been totally hot. And a point not to be ignored, both times had been completely dissatisfying.

Sara forced herself to admit that she wanted more than just an uncommitted, physical relationship with Neal Caffrey. She wanted to share his energy and his enthusiasm and his intellect. She wanted his friendship and companionship; she might even entertain the terrifying concept of love. Except that she couldn't have any of that right now, because he was comfortable lying to her – she couldn't trust him. Without the trust, there was nothing. Well, almost nothing. If that longed-for relationship was really impossible, she wouldn't be sitting alone in her apartment on a Friday night feeling sorry for herself.

Shivering as the sun sank behind the buildings across from her balcony, she drained her glass and went back inside, shutting the doors against the coolness of approaching autumn. She thought about refilling the glass once again and decided against it. The only thing worse than a combined dose of loneliness and self-pity would be adding an alcoholic buzz to the mix. She put the empty glass in the sink and looked at the television. Nope, no television this evening. She would exercise her brain cells instead. She picked up the most recent copy of _The New Yorker _from her stack of mail and turned to the political section. Even if it turned out she didn't agree with a single viewpoint in this issue, it would take her mind off herself.

She had just lost herself in the intricacies of the number of candidates running for the current elections when her cellphone trilled, requesting her attention. Glancing at the display, she didn't recognize the caller. However, her recent association with Caffrey had shown her that just because you don't know who the caller is doesn't mean you don't want to talk to them. Accepting the call, she placed the phone to her ear.

"Sara Ellis," she said cautiously.

"Are you alone?" The voice on the other end of the call somehow made the question sound like a demand.

"Why, Mozzie?" Even though she was startled to receive a call from the little man, she knew patience would get her more information than her more instinctive reaction, which was to reach through the phone and strangle him.

"Why, what?"

Deep breaths, Sara, she admonished herself. "Why do you need to know if I'm alone?"

"I don't know." Mozzie's voice sounded a little odd – odder than he normally sounded.

"Are you drunk?" Sara asked him suspiciously.

"Maybe a little."

"What's this about, Mozzie?" Sara knew she sounded irritated – she was irritated – but she needed to get Mozzie to focus.

"It's Neal."

Sara felt her heart speed up. What could possibly have happened? Had something gone wrong on a case? Was he hurt? No, she was sure Peter himself would have called her to give her that kind of news. Had Neal run? No, then Mozzie would never have called her. Besides, she really didn't think Neal would run; not now, anyway.

"Mozzie?" she prompted him while trying to get a grip on her own wayward thoughts. "What about Neal?"

"He's back in maximum security."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

9:12 a.m., Monday. The FBI-NYC White Collar division was buzzing, both agents and clerks addressing their most recent cases with an enthusiasm that could only be envied by other organizations, even by other divisions of the FBI. In the upper level conference room Peter Burke and his team plowed earnestly through cartons of documents, looking for leads to determine who the Medicare fraud mastermind was at one of New York's swankiest hospitals.

Agent Burke reached over to grab a file from the banker's box nearest him, nearly clipping Agent Berrigan's head in the process. His mumbled apology was received with a matching mumble of acceptance. Peter was the first to laud the efforts of his "Harvard Team" on this case. It was mind-numbing work and the agents applied themselves with the same zeal they would use to uncover a terrorist plot.

Mind numbing. That might actually be an understatement. Peter couldn't believe one case could generate so much paper. Unfortunately, digging through page after page of medical techno speak looking for that one tiny piece of information that would crack this case gave the other 98 percent of Peter's brain free rein to wander elsewhere. Leaning against the back window ledge, he glanced into his office at the neat stack of files, which were the basis for the credit card fraud case and Neal's undercover assignment. His eyes moved involuntarily from the files to the phone on his desk, which remained stubbornly silent this morning. Neal had been undercover for three days, and he had heard nothing from the prison.

"Why don't you just call the warden if you're concerned, honey?" El's voice sounded calmly in his head replaying their conversation from breakfast this morning. Unfortunately, his response hadn't been as calm.

"I'm not worried," he snapped. "There's no reason for me to be worried."

"Then why do you keep checking your phone?" Elizabeth indicated the cellphone at his elbow with a nod of her head.

Peter stared at his phone, mentally groping for a reasonable response. "We have several cases with loose ends right now. It has nothing to do with Caffrey." Realizing he had failed miserably with the reasonable response, he picked up his phone and slammed it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Standing, he took a last gulp of coffee and headed for the door.

"I really need to get going, honey. Have a great day." Bending over to give his wife a kiss, Peter was startled to find her standing glaring at him.

"Peter Burke!" Elizabeth's blue eyes flared with anger.

Since her kidnapping and subsequent rescue, Peter tended to treat his wife as a fragile creature that needed protecting. He kept forgetting she was anything but. He glanced at his watch, as much to break eye contact with the angry woman as to determine what time it was.

"El, I really need to get going. I want to get an early start on this Medicare thing."

"Not until we talk about Neal."

Neal. Well that cut straight to the heart of the matter. Sighing, he reseated himself at the table. Elizabeth sat as well, now looking more concerned than angry. Elizabeth, the only eye witness to Neal's attempt to rescue her from Matthew Keller, tended to look at the younger man as something of a misguided hero. Peter saw him as anything but heroic. Caffrey had barely managed to help Elizabeth get free, needed to be rescued himself, and was the cause of the whole miserable situation to begin with. If only he had come clean about the treasure, none of the rest would have happened.

"El, honey . . ." he began.

"Peter, just listen for a minute."

Peter listened.

"You sent Neal into a dangerous situation. You have every reason to be concerned," El began.

"He's doing his job. Which he's damn lucky to have, by the way."

"He's in a place where the residents aren't exactly known for their good behavior," Elizabeth continued steadily, "and Neal helped you put some of them there. You have to admit there's some risk."

"Of course there's risk; it's a prison! Where he was surviving just fine long before he worked _for_ the FBI. A place where, after all the stunts he's pulled _since_ he's been working with the FBI, he really deserves to be!"

There it was. That last sentence hung between husband and wife like a hooked fish – not to be tossed back and not to be ignored.

"Peter?" Elizabeth asked softly. "Did you send Neal on this assignment as punishment? Because of what happened to me?"

Peter didn't answer. For a moment he couldn't answer. Had he? Was he that vindictive? He was certainly finding it uncomfortable working with the younger man since the Keller episode, but he wouldn't purposely put him in danger.

"Peter?"

No, he wouldn't.

"El, no. No!" Peter reached for her hand and clasped it firmly, reassuringly. "Honey, I wouldn't do that. It's forgeries, fraud, Neal's specialties." He offered a wry smile. "He's the best person for the job, and he went willingly. It was his choice. There are people watching him all the time. He'll be fine."

"You're a good man, Peter Burke." Was that a statement or a reminder? He smiled uncomfortably in response and stood up again.

"I really have to get going." He checked his watch again. "They're in the middle of morning headcounts and safety checks at the prison right now," he explained as he grabbed his briefcase. "I'll call the warden when I get into the office."

Elizabeth stood, intercepting her husband for a goodbye kiss. She searched his face, apparently finding what she needed to see there. "Neal will be fine," she said.

"Yes, he will," Peter affirmed. "Bye, hon."

True to his word, Peter called Warden Haskley as soon as he was in the office, but he was forced to leave a message. There was no return call from the man yet, but prisons were busy places in the morning. There was absolutely no reason for concern.

Peter scanned through a few more pages of the file in his hands, not really reading any of it. Had he pushed Caffrey into this assignment? As payback? Peter didn't like having to question his motivations, he wanted to believe his decisions were all made based on fairness and logic. The possibility that he let vindictiveness play even a small part shook him to his core. Even El seemed unsure of his actions. Well, it would all be fine just as soon as he heard from . . .

"Agent Burke. Agent Burke!"

The hand on his shoulder drew Peter back to the present. Agent Blake had become a lot more confident in the past few months, but he was touching his lead agent – this must really be urgent.

It was. Following Blake's pointing hand, Peter could see Sara Ellis making her way purposefully through the office, heading for the stairs. She was dressed in a form-fitting power suit of navy blue, with a rose cami underneath. He could see fine lines etched around her mouth and her eyes were hard as jade. Peter sighed and went to meet her. He was pretty sure she wasn't here for the coffee.

ooOoo

Neal felt that things were going much better than he could have expected. Nothing had gone wrong with his assignment until he was at breakfast his first full day back in maximum security. Yes, it was much better than he could have hoped for. His whispered conversation with Bobby the previous night after lights-out only confirmed what Neal already suspected, his fame as FBI snitch and his fame as possessor of a multimillion dollar art treasure made him the _cause c__è__l__è__bre _of the cell block. Neal really needed to watch his back, Bobby warned.

At least they could have waited until he had his coffee. Even though the stuff was instant, and tasted a little like how Neal thought yak urine might taste, it contained much-needed caffeine. It just wasn't right to threaten someone before they had their coffee.

It happened when Neal was in the chow line. He had just grasped that necessary cup of coffee when a large, hairy hand grabbed his wrist. The hand tightened fiercely as Neal tried to slip out of the vice-like grip.

"Do you need a cup of coffee?" Caffrey smiled ingratiatingly. "I'd be happy to get you one if you'd just **let go of my arm**_._" He pitched his voice loud enough that the guard stationed in the corner could hear him.

The response from his tormentor was a sharp upward motion which pulled Neal's arm into a painfully awkward position and poured coffee down the front of his orange jumpsuit. The response from the guard was a sneering smile. Terrific, Neal thought as he stared at the guard, just terrific. It was the guard who had unknowingly held the final door open for him when he made his escape over a year ago. Neal realized he couldn't expect any help from that quarter. He tried again to free his pinioned arm.

"You should listen to me, snitch," his captor rumbled. "I understand you like talkin' with the Feds. That's probably not a wise thing to do."

Neal measured up the man. He was a very large man, leaning a little toward the primate end of the evolutionary ladder. This was the perfect chance to try out his story.

"In case you haven't heard, the Feds and I aren't exactly friends. Not since I went behind there backs. That's why I'm here. Our little arrangement didn't work. I didn't like the restrictions." Caffrey's face now reflected earnest dislike of his "former" handlers.

"Once a snitch, always a snitch," was the automatic response. The man's eyes, however, showed at least a glimmer of belief. Giving Neal's arm one last painful twist, the inmate released his grip and loped off. Neal rubbed his arm gingerly.

The guard sauntered over from his corner, his smile wide and unpleasant. He gave Caffrey a sharp jab in the shoulder, pointing to the brown stain covering the front of his jumpsuit. "You're going to have a fun time in the machine shop today," he taunted. "It looks like you wet yourself."

Terrific.

ooOoo

Warden Haskley regarded the two phones on his desk with equal parts of fear and irritation. He was certain one of the messages on the office line was from that supercilious FBI agent, Burke, inquiring about the progress of his fraud investigation and the well-being of his precious little snitch. He knew without checking that the three missed calls on his cellphone were from a very large and impatient mob enforcer, inquiring about the progress of the credit card fraud operation and wondering _where was his money. _Looking between the two phones, Haskley actually groaned out loud.

The warden stood and moved to the window, looking out over the prison yard. This was his kingdom, his domain. How had he gotten into this mess? He was, or at least he used to be, an honorable, respected man. Even Caffrey's escape had left only the faintest smudge on an otherwise spotless record. He leaned his head against the cool, bulletproof glass. Now he had to decide who he wanted to screw: the FBI or the Mob? Maybe both?

With another sigh, he returned to his desk. It was better to get it over with. He quickly listened to his messages, then dialed.

"Agent Burke, this is Warden Haskley," he stated authoritatively when Burke picked up the phone. "Sorry I wasn't here when you called but things are so busy in the mornings. I'm sure you understand." He allowed the FBI agent the briefest of responses before continuing. "Your man is fine. We're taking good care of him." Another brief pause, this time to allow Burke to express his appreciation. "No, he hasn't reported any progress on the credit cards yet," that wasn't even a lie, Haskley thought proudly, "but I'm sure it's only a matter of time. I'll let you know as soon as I know anything." Like when hell freezes over. "Don't worry, everything's in good hands."

Haskley stared at those hands when the call ended. They were shaking. Not good. His cellphone still blinked balefully at him and he considered the other message he had to respond to. He needed to calm down a little before he made that call. Looking at the clock on the wall across from his desk he did a quick mental calculation. The betting for the first race at Belmont Park should be open by now. Yes, a quick bet was just what he needed to improve his day.

ooOoo

Peter hung up the phone on his desk and indicated that Sara should come into his office. She had remained politely outside while he was on the phone, though she hadn't exactly been waiting patiently. While he listened to Warden Haskley, he had watched the toe of her designer pump beat a rapid tattoo on the hallway carpet.

"Sara, good morning. Have a seat." Peter waved his hand at the chair Neal usually occupied, seating himself behind his desk.

"Neal's in prison?" Sara remained standing; her pose reminding him vaguely of Enyo, the Greek goddess of war and destruction.

"Yes, Neal is in prison – undercover." Peter looked firmly at her across the desk. "Sara, sit." If she could channel Enyo, he could channel Zeus. She sat, resting her purse on her knees. Her foot continued to tap.

"Sara, he's fine. That was the warden on the phone. Everything's going fine." Peter certainly felt more comfortable after talking to Haskley, and even though he still was experiencing the tiniest bit of concern, he wasn't going to share that with Sara.

"How did you find out about his assignment?" Peter asked. Neal had been very specific; he didn't want Sara to know he was going to be inside.

"Mozzie called me. He's very upset."

"Mozzie's always upset. That's his default setting."

Sara reluctantly succumbed to a small smile. Her foot ceased its incessant tapping. "I think he was a little drunk, too."

They sat in silence for a moment, relishing the mental image.

"Peter, prison is a dangerous place for Neal to be."

"When we figured out what was going on, he offered to go undercover. He volunteered, Sara."

"What is going on that required someone inside the prison?"

"You know, don't you, that some credit companies use inmates to process card transactions?" Peter began, leaning back in his chair. "It's cheap labor."

"I always thought it was a big risk to take, giving criminals access to financial information." Sara smiled wryly. "They _are_ criminals."

"There haven't been many problems. There are lots of safeguards in place."

"Until now?"

Peter sighed. "Until now," he confirmed. "This operation is slick. We couldn't find a paper trail, which is why we had to send someone inside." Peter's brown eyes met Sara's hazel ones. "With his skills and his, um, track record, Neal knew he was the obvious person to do this. He volunteered," Peter repeated. "No one forced him."

Sara eyed him steadily, assessing this last affirmation. She leaned forward, over her purse, drawing Peter into a close exchange.

"Have you talked to Neal since he's been inside?" she asked. "Has he called you?"

"He's not going to call me," Peter explained. "It's not going to help his undercover role any if someone found out he was calling his FBI buddy."

Sara leaned back, obviously embarrassed that this hadn't occurred to her. "So, who is his contact?"

"Any information he finds goes directly to Warden Haskley."

ooOoo

The combined odors of metal shavings, machine lubricant, and human sweat hit Neal like a noxious wall as the door to the prison machine shop slid open. This particular duty wasn't high on his list of places where he wanted to work, but he knew that the more desired locations like the library or the administrative offices had to be earned with good behavior. Or bought. Until he could figure out how to be reassigned to the credit card processing shop, he'd be a good little boy and manufacture nuts and bolts. At least it wasn't the kitchen, he thought, he'd had enough food spilled on him for one day.

Caffrey was shepherded to his workstation along with other inmates from his cell block in a straggly orange line. He noted with dismay that the group of prisoners being moved back to their cells were being guarded by Bobby. He'd hoped the guard would be on duty while he worked, but obviously it wasn't to be. Bobby didn't even look in Neal's direction when they passed. A quick shove in the small of his back by the guard who was on duty propelled Neal to his lathe. Resignedly he began to work.

"Hey, Caffrey! Watcha doin' back here?"

Neal almost ground off his own thumb in surprise at the voice coming from out of sight behind his lathe. Carefully disengaging the mechanism he peered around the machine.

"Hey, Desmond," he responded. Neal wasn't surprised that Desmond was still incarcerated. His three strikes for assault and battery had him serving what amounted to a life sentence. But since he'd kicked the drugs and cleaned up his act, he'd been a model prisoner. He certainly should have one of the "posher" duties by now.

Desmond never broke rhythm with his press as he regarded Neal, stamping out one perfect gear after another. His arm muscles moved in time with the machine while his dark eyes silently questioned the other man.

Neal fought the urge to squirm. "I'm back in," he stated obviously. "Things didn't work out the way I expected." Now, that's an understatement, Neal thought.

"Yeah, but you were out, man." Thunk. Another gear slid into the bin. Desmond had watched Neal walk out, dressed as a guard, when he made his escape, and never said a word.

"Things didn't work out," Neal repeated. Reengaging his own machine, he went back to work, raising his voice so Desmond could hear him over the metallic whine. "What are you still doing here?" he asked. "You ought to be working upstairs by now."

An odd metallic crunching noise rang through the shop. Desmond had missed a gear. Neal watched as the man bent his cornrow-covered head to retrieve the misshapen piece of metal. Straightening, his brown eyes met Neal's blue ones.

"I'm happy down here," he said, tossing the scrap into another bin. "I don't want anything to do with those guys upstairs." He paused to look around. "It's safer down here." Thunk. Another gear in the basket.

Neal slowly worked the lathe, not really paying attention to his work. Desmond was a smart guy and as honest any of the inmates were. If he preferred the machine shop to the transactions room, something had to be going on. Neal needed to figure out how to get assigned up there. Maybe now was the time to make contact with the warden.

"This isn't a resort, Caffrey, get to work!"

Another shove from the guard caused Neal to lurch forward. A sudden searing pain shot from his right hand up his arm, causing him to cry out. Dizzy and disoriented, Neal staggered back against a wall, hardly aware of the chaos around him. Desmond and several other inmates had rushed forward when he yelled; other guards appeared to restrain them. Panting, tears of pain streaming down his face, all Neal knew was that something terrible had happened to his hand.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Neal lay on the bunk in his cell, completely immobile except for the rise and fall of his chest and the occasional blink of his eyes. His injured right hand, with two splinted fingers and bandage-wrapped palm, rested on his stomach. The bare bulb suspended over the small desk illuminated both the unread paperback book and the unused paper and charcoals Bobby had brought for him earlier in the day. Boy, talk about karma!

It was his karma that Neal was considering right now. Irony didn't even begin to sum it up, he thought. He escapes jail time after the disaster that was the U-boat treasure, Matthew Keller, and Elizabeth Burke's kidnapping. So, he ends up back inside anyway in order to solve a scam. His hand, his right hand, the hand so necessary for his less than legal activities, is injured while on the job for the FBI. He wonders, idly, whether he's being punished for activities in a past life, or if all the crap he's pulled in his current life is enough to warrant his punishment.

The worst part about this whole karmic payback thing was the loneliness. _You reap what you sow._ That came from the bible, Neal remembered. It certainly applied in his case. He'd managed to alienate just about every person he cared about. Great job, Caffrey. He'd betrayed Peter, conned the FBI, put Elizabeth's life at risk, pushed Mozzie away, and lied to Sara, thereby ruining any chance they had of being together. Yup, karma was a bitch.

"You okay in there Caffrey?" Bobby's voice sounded outside Neal's cell.

"Yeah, I'm great." No, he wasn't great. The prison infirmary was pretty stingy with the painkillers and Neal wasn't sure which ached worse, the finger with the hairline fracture or the finger with the dislocated joint. He was fortunate both injuries would heal completely.

"That's good," Bobby said encouragingly, " 'cause you have a visitor. C'mon, get up and get out here."

Neal stood, swaying slightly at the sudden change in altitude, then made his way to the cell door as Bobby opened it.

"Do you know who it is, Bobby?" he asked as he held out his wrists for the guard to cuff.

Bobby eyed the injured hand and Neal's pale face, then clipped his cuffs back onto his utility belt. "You better not run," he warned, "or I'm gonna taze you."

Neal gave the big man a grateful smile. They started down the long hallway, Bobby's hand lightly gripping Neal's upper arm.

"I don't know who wants to see your skinny ass," the guard said conversationally. "I'm guessing it's your lawyer, since I'm supposed to take you to the attorney's meeting room."

Mozzie! Neal's face lightened with a smile. It would be good to see a friendly face, and they would be safe from prying eyes in the attorney's room. There was no audio, video, or observation window in those rooms. Attorney/client privilege. But when Bobby unlocked the door and gave his prisoner a gentle push inside, Neal almost backed out again. It wasn't Mozzie, it was . . .

"Sara?"

ooOoo

Sara Ellis never once doubted that Peter Burke was telling her the truth when he told her that everything was under control at the maximum security prison where Neal Caffrey was currently a resident. She didn't doubt that Peter, the FBI and the prison warden had done everything within their power to guarantee Neal's safety while he was undercover. Unfortunately she also didn't doubt the tingling at the base of her neck that indicated _something_ was wrong with the whole set-up. So she knew she was going to have to see what was going on for herself. Of course, she admitted to herself, there was also no doubt that she was a control freak.

ooOoo

Detective Zach Wilson, NYPD, stood just inside the gate to the Federal maximum security prison feeling just the tiniest bit suspicious. An hour and a half ago he was sure he was close to making his career. Sara Ellis, that hot insurance investigator from Sterling-Bosch, had specifically requested his presence while she questioned a known art thief concerning the location of a missing masterpiece. Obviously, he'd made an impression on her a few months ago when he helped search that apartment, looking for a stolen piece of mail. It was even possible, he thought, that she admired more than just his police work. He did work out, after all, and he still had all his hair.

An hour and a half in the car with her, though, and she hadn't said a word. Not one word! She flipped through the file she kept in her lap. She looked out the window at the farms and small towns indigenous to upstate New York. She sighed – a lot. None of this indicated a desperate need to get to know him better. And it was a maximum security prison, she certainly didn't need an escort to protect her during an interview.

He sighed.

Twenty minutes later Detective Wilson's tiny suspicion had grown exponentially. He and Ms. Ellis were in an interview room, waiting for the prisoner to be delivered to them. The slender woman paced back and forth like a caged tiger, and he was reasonably sure she was no longer aware of his existence. Opting to ignore this added blow to his already bruised self-esteem, he picked up the file she had abandoned on the table and leafed through it. Apparently, Sterling-Bosch was still trying to recover Raphael's _St. George and the Dragon,_ which had been stolen over five years ago. While Ms. Ellis had seemed certain she knew who the thief was she never had any proof. Even more interesting, the main suspect was Neal Caffrey, the same man they'd come so close to arresting over that stolen package. What was it with her and this guy, he wondered?

At that moment the door opened. A guard stuck his head in and looked around, then gave his prisoner a gentle shove into the room.

"Sara?" Caffrey looked surprised, or maybe aghast would be a better description. The detective noted the prisoner hardly resembled the suave, confident man whose apartment he'd searched six months ago. This man looked wary, unsure of himself, and very tired. He held an injured hand close to his body. The most telling feature was his eyes, though. That first, unguarded look at Ms. Ellis, no matter how quickly he was able to hide it, said it all. This was no visit between investigator and criminal; it was obviously much more personal.

Sara Ellis was no better at hiding her feelings. Shock, concern, and a definite softening of her whole demeanor made her real reason for being here all too obvious.

Zach Wilson dropped dispiritedly into a chair, sincerely hoping this wouldn't turn into a conjugal visit.

"If you need anything, ma'am, just press this button here." The guard indicated an intercom device next to the door. "Otherwise you'll have all the privacy you'll need."

Oh, God, the detective thought.

"Excuse me!" Sara called out as the guard moved to leave. "Can you wait just a minute?" She offered her escort a sympathetic look.

"I'd like some time alone with the prisoner," she said to the guard. "Is there someplace where Detective Wilson can wait? Someplace more comfortable than out in the hallway?" She looked beseechingly at Bobby.

"Sure. I'll see he gets to the break room."

"Thank you." She shot an apologetic look at Wilson as he stood resignedly to follow the guard. "Thank you, too, detective. I'll make sure Sterling-Bosch knows how helpful you've been."

Well, maybe something good would come out of this trip, Wilson thought.

ooOoo

Now that she had accomplished what she set out to do; now that she was in the same room as Neal, Sara didn't know what to do. She'd got herself in here because Mozzie's call had caused her a little concern. No, he'd freaked her out. She just wanted to make sure Neal was okay – and he was. Except he wasn't, she realized, looking at the injured hand cradled against his body.

Since uncertainty was a feeling she wasn't used to dealing with, it made her both angry and just a little bit frightened. Well, she thought, she would just stick with her original plan to find out what was going on and work past the rest of it.

"Sit down, Caffrey," she directed, taking charge of the situation.

He sat, without saying a word and without taking his eyes off Sara. She seated herself across the table from him, cleared her throat, and opened the folder.

"I'd like to talk to you about a missing painting, insured by my company . . ."

"Really? That's all you've got?"

Sara watched as Neal's initial surprise at seeing her was replaced with calm disinterest mixed with vague annoyance. It was her turn for silence.

"Why are you here, Sara?" It occurred to Neal he'd been asking that question a lot in recent months. He never could figure her out; that was part of her appeal. It also irritated the hell out of him.

Sara remained silent. She really didn't have an answer for that question, not one she wanted to share. Not yet. What happened to taking charge of the situation, she wondered?

Neal appeared to have found his voice, however.

"Who told you I was here? I can't believe Peter told you. I was very clear . . ."

"It was Mozzie."

"Mozzie?" Neal looked genuinely shocked.

"He's very concerned about the whole situation." Sara was pleased to be recovering her equilibrium.

"So he called you?" Neal was still nonplussed by his friend's choice of ally.

"I suspect you don't have much wine left in the apartment." She smiled slightly at the thought. "He seemed a little tipsy."

Neal offered a cautious smile in return. "Oh," he said in understanding. "Last I saw he was drinking gin."

Noting the small chink in his defenses, Sara moved in with a tentative thrust. "What are you doing here, Neal?" she asked.

"I'm a criminal," he stated flatly. Sara could hear his defensive walls slamming back down into place.

"Yeah, I know that Caffrey," she answered just as flatly. "I want to know why you're here; why now?"

Neal leaned back in his chair, eying her up and down cautiously, the faintest of smirks on his lips.

"Are you wearing a wire, Sara? Hoping I slip up and confess to something?" He knew that would make her angry; that it would deflect her questions.

Sara jumped up so fast her chair toppled over backwards, spots of dull red coloring her cheeks. Neal involuntarily pulled back a little. She looked like she might actually be able to breathe fire; he wanted to be out of range, just in case.

"How dare you?" she asked smolderingly. "I would never . . ."

"Yes, you would." A faint twitch of his lips relieved the smirk, just a little.

Sara turned to pick up the chair, hiding her face from him. He was right, she would have worn a wire – once – trying to make a recovery. Now? Well, probably not, not with Neal, anyway. Seating herself across from him once more, she smiled in concession.

"I'm not wearing a wire," she assured him. "So, spill, why are you here?"

"I know you talked to Peter. You know why I'm here." Neal had himself well under control now. The courteous, bland look on his face made Sara want to scratch his eyes out. Why couldn't she make him engage?

"I understand the investigation," she said, "but, Neal, you volunteered. Why?"

"I'm doing my job."

"It's your job to help solve cases, not put your life on the line." She indicated his injured hand resting on the table. "You're hurt."

"Just a little accident in the machine shop. I was clumsy. I tripped." He offered her a courteous smile, devoid of emotion. "It's nothing that won't heal."

She studied the face across the table from her. He stared calmly back, the faintest of smiles tipping the corners of his mouth. Then she saw it. If she hadn't been watching him so intently she might have missed it – the fleeting emotion slipping through his gaze, glancing off his features.

"What the hell is wrong with you Caffrey?" She spoke softly, but there was actual menace in her voice. She stood and leaned across the table so he couldn't avoid her.

"You're here doing penance, aren't you? Do you think the Feds should have revoked your release? Or are you trying to show Peter how sorry you are?"

"Peter sent me here, Sara!" Neal stood too, leaning across the table himself, oblivious to his injured hand. There was no doubt what his feelings were now – anger, hurt, and guilt filled his features to overflowing.

"Yeah, Peter's angry with you. Are you surprised? You lied to him. You betrayed him." There was no stopping now, Sara thought. "Do you really think this is the way to get him to trust you again? Offering yourself up as a sacrificial lamb isn't your style, Caffrey. Show him how smart you are! Show him he can trust you to do your job!" Her breathing was hard and fast, matching the intensity of her emotions.

Neal was breathing hard, too. They stood, glaring at each other across the small room. But Neal said nothing. Suddenly, Sara couldn't stand it anymore.

"Fine," she said darkly. "Stay here; sacrifice yourself, if that's what you really want." She stalked across the small space and banged on the intercom button. "I want out of here," she said to the disembodied voice that responded. "I'm through."

She gathered her things and stood by the door, waiting.

"Sara!" Neal's one word entreaty didn't stop her. Well, he'd wanted to make her angry. He'd succeeded. Somehow, he'd also given himself away. She was the most intelligent, calculating, discerning, aggravating woman he'd ever met!

"You're an idiot, Caffrey," she stated calmly as the door was opened and she stepped out into the hallway.

ooOoo

Bobby watched the stiff, angry form of Ms. Sara Ellis with some amusement as she preceeded him down the hall to the visitor's exit, her heels clicking a quick double-time march. Normally he didn't think too highly of skinny rich girls in their fancy clothes and expensive jewelry, but there was something different about this one. He thought he might actually like her. Admittedly, at this moment it was possible she might spontaneously combust, but he'd seen that other look, the one when Neal walked into the meeting room.

When Neal first walked in, Bobby couldn't understand why he hesitated. It wasn't like he was a real prisoner this time, even though he was doing a good job of acting like one. No, this time it was just a job. And neither of the visitors looked particularly threatening – so what was the problem?

Then he saw the look between Neal and this Ellis woman, and he understood. It looked like the boy was soft on her. He'd have to let Neal know he liked this one. Neal needed someone who could keep up with him, who could match his brains and wouldn't let him boss her around. That other girl, Kate, if he remembered right, had been a sweet little thing, but she would never have lasted. No, this lady was better, and it was obvious, at least to Bobby, that she cared about Neal. She cared a great deal, which was probably why she was so angry at him right now.

Neal was acting like a scolded puppy; sitting in his corner and looking so ashamed and miserable. Whatever he'd done, and Bobby had heard the rumors too, had caused a lot of trouble for a lot of people. If Neal felt bad, fine; it wouldn't hurt for him to learn a little humility, but if he didn't start sticking up for himself in here, his whole investigation was going to fall apart – and he probably would get himself hurt. Again.

ooOoo

Zach figured out pretty quickly that the ride back into the city wasn't going to be any more pleasant than the ride out had been. Sara sat next to him like a barely contained whirlwind, tapping and squirming and fidgeting in the seat. It was a good thing she had her seat belt on, he thought, or she might just launch through the roof. She was one angry insurance investigator.

Wisely, the young detective kept silent, leaving him plenty of time brood over his visit to the guards break room. The guards coarse language and contempt for their charges didn't surprise the detective. After all, the inmates weren't serving time for unpaid parking tickets. What bothered him was mention of the mob, and big payoffs, and what to do about Caffrey the snitch.

"Ahem." Zach cleared his throat tentatively, trying to get Sara's attention without igniting an explosion.

Dead silence from the other side of the car. Fine.

"So, did you get what you needed from Caffrey?" He wanted to add "since you dragged me along for cover" but didn't.

Sara took a deep breath before answering. "I found out everything I needed to know," she answered flatly.

Zach rolled his eyes. She wasn't making this easy. "So, what's he in for?" he tried.

"He's in because he's a thief. He has to pay for what he's done to other people." Sara turned herself so that she was facing the window, leaving no doubt that the conversation was over.

Zach was relieved when the bridge back into Manhattan came into view; this trip certainly hadn't gone how he expected it would. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Caffrey was just a criminal. Maybe he had misunderstood what he overheard in the break room.

"Is there someplace I can drop you, Ms. Ellis?" He kept his eyes straight ahead, negotiating the Midtown traffic.

Sara looked out the window as the car stopped for a red-light, surprised to see they were already at Central Park. She turned to face the young detective.

"I owe you an apology, Detective Wilson." She smiled sheepishly. "I dragged you along under false pretenses. I was mistaken about Caffrey."

"I thought he had a connection to the FBI. I heard he was some kind of consultant." The detective really wanted an explanation for the snitch comment he'd overheard. The light changed and they continued moving east.

"He's a criminal; he's where he needs to be." Again the answer was flat, without emotion. They traveled through the stop-and-go traffic in silence for a few more minutes.

"Okay. I thought maybe something else might be going on." Zach gave it one last try as he stopped for another light. They were as far as Grand Central.

"Just drop me off here," Sara said. "I can catch a train home." The detective noticed the woman wouldn't make eye contact with him. Obviously he was going to get nothing else from her.

So he pulled over and dropped her off.

ooOoo

Once again Neal lay unmoving on the bunk in his cell, his body eerily still. His mind, however, was racing in tumultuous circles. He hadn't wanted to see Sara; he specifically said he didn't want her to know where he was. Why had Mozzie called her, of all people, to share his concerns with? Even worse, he had been elated to see the woman, though he tried his best to hide it from her. It was obvious that behind her little interrogation gambit there had been real concern for his well-being. Which he had done his level best to deflect.

The worst part, however, had been Sara's anger. Yes, Neal had wanted her angry – because he wanted her to leave. But she was right. He had accepted this assignment so readily as a form of penance.

He would show Peter. He would show Peter what? How sorry he was? He'd already said that a million times. How he was willing to do anything to make it up to Peter? The man's wife had been kidnapped; there was no way to make that up. That he would happily wallow in a tepid pool of guilt and self pity? That wouldn't do anyone any good, but that's what he'd been doing. God, he hadn't done that since he was a kid. Not since . . . Nope, he wasn't going down that road again. He needed to show Peter that he would do his job, and do a damn good job of it.

He stood up and went to the door of the cell, peering up and down the hallway. He wanted to find Bobby, but it looked like the big man wasn't on duty right now. Apparently one of the other guards did see him and was making his way slowly down the block.

"What do you want Caffrey?" the man asked, obviously without any real interest in the answer.

This was the perfect opportunity to request a visit with the warden; the guards all knew he was here undercover. Something stopped him, however, before he had the chance to make the request. Something wasn't right. Maybe his sense of self-preservation was finally kicking in. Maybe it was his secret spidey sense. All he knew was that he was going to wait for Bobby.

"Nothing. I'm just a little bored, thought I'd take in the sights." Caffrey smiled pleasantly at the guard. The guard did not smile pleasantly back.

"Cute, Caffrey," the guard snarled. "Unless you want me to break some more of those pretty fingers of yours you better back off."

Holding his hands up in front of him, Neal backed away from the bars.

"Fine," he said. "I'm backing away." Neal was sure he heard a muttered "pain in the ass" as the guard retraced his steps down the corridor.

Neal looked morosely at the two items on the small table: the charcoals and the novel. He picked up the novel, read the back without much interest, and returned it to the table. He glanced at the charcoals, then at his injured hand. He shrugged, then seated himself on the stool in front of the table.

"Guess I'll practice my left-handed sketching."

ooOoo

Warden Haskly looked up from the stack of files on his desk to stare disconsolately at the clock on the wall. He should be heading home now, but the house was empty; his wife was in the city with friends – spending money. He closed the file and added it to the stack of similar files on his desk.

Money. He sighed and threw down the pen, resting his head in his hands and holding tight; as if somehow his head would roll off if he didn't hang on to it. He just needed enough money to pay of his wife's credit card bills, and his gambling debts, and then everything would be right again. He was under so much stress – no wonder his hands shook. He turned to the cabinet behind him, opened a drawer, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of bourbon. He poured liberally into his empty coffee mug.

A sharp knock on the office door had him quickly stowing the bottle away again.

"Yes," he called out firmly.

"Warden, it's Officer Mantino. May I speak with you, sir?"

Haskly sighed with relief. "Sure, come on in." Mantino was a friend, and he was in on the credit card scam. He didn't need to play-act with the man like he had to with some of the other guards.

The officer shut the door behind him as he entered, seating himself in the chair across from Haskly and making himself comfortable.

"You're here late," Mantino observed. "Wife not home again?"

"She's shopping."

Mantino smiled sympathetically. His smile faded as he gave the warden a hard look. "We need to do something about Caffrey. How could you assign him to the credit detail?" he asked with some irritation.

"What was I supposed to do?" Haskly snapped. "Bobby came in, said since Caffrey couldn't work in the machine shop, he ought to be moved to transactions duty, since he was undercover. Damn!" The warden slapped his hand on his desk. "I couldn't say no without causing suspicion."

"I suppose not," Mantino agreed.

"So, do you have any other brilliant ideas?" Haskly asked caustically. "Since your machine shop plan didn't work out too well."

"You know," the guard said thoughtfully, "prisons aren't very safe places. It's all these criminals."

"We can't kill him," the warden objected. "The FBI will be all over us!"

"Sir! I'm certainly not suggesting we murder a trusted government informant," Mantino continued calmly, "but dangerous circumstances arise all the time here. And you know there aren't enough guards to watch all the inmates." His smile was feral.

Warden Haskly sat silent and unmoving behind his desk. It was obvious, from the look on his face, he was waging some great internal debate with himself. Finally, he sighed, and seemed to shake himself.

"Do you want some bourbon?" Haskly asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

Mantino smiled. "Sure," was all he said.

The warden pulled the bottle and a glass from the drawer.

"So," he asked the guard, "what do you have in mind?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Sara stood on her balcony, arms wrapped around herself, breathing in the coolness of the nighttime air. She looked up at the sky; she was sure the stars were twinkling; too bad she couldn't see them beyond Manhattan's ever present city glow.

Frustration seemed to emanate from every pore of her body. Running her hands through her hair, she turned and went back into her apartment. She slammed the sliding glass door closed with enough force to make her hope, belatedly, that the glass wouldn't break.

Taking a deep breath, she squared her slim shoulders and made an effort to shake off the fog that seemed to envelope her since her return from the upstate prison. She picked up the half-finished scotch she poured herself earlier, looked dishearteningly at the now lukewarm liquor and dumped it down the kitchen drain. She took the untouched cartons of Chinese carryout and put them in the refrigerator. She still needed to eat something, she thought, but nothing appealed to her. Looking around the kitchen, her eyes focused on a small ceramic jar shoved far back on the kitchen counter. Smiling, Sara removed the lid and took one, no, two would be better, chocolate chip cookies and headed back into her living room.

Seating herself on the sofa, Sara nibbled at the first cookie, trying to determine her next course of action. So Neal was doing penance, fine. Let him feel as guilty as he wanted; the experience could only do him good. Still, there was something wrong with the whole situation. She would just have to figure out what it was.

Taking a larger bite of cookie, she reached for her phone to call – who? Peter would be at home now but Sara was hesitant to call him there and intrude on his time with his wife, not after all that had happened to them. She scrolled down her received calls, looking for the number Mozzie had called from. But why should she call him, she pondered. He didn't seem to know anything more than she did.

Tossing her phone aside, Sara pulled open her laptop. She paused for a moment, considering the advisability of using proprietary Sterling-Bosch software for personal research. It was a very brief pause. A few short minutes and one chocolate chip cookie later, she had the information she needed.

She retrieved her phone, but nearly dropped it again when it sprang to life in her hand. Once again, it was a number she didn't recognize.

"It's okay, Mozzie, I'm working on it," she answered confidently. "Let me tell you what I found."

"Ms. Ellis?" an unknown voice questioned.

"Who is this?" she responded with some irritation.

"It's Detective Wilson, ma'am," the young man reminded her. "From NYPD Robbery. I went with you to the prison today," he continued, when it appeared she had no idea who he was.

"Yes, Detective. I'm sorry I didn't recognize your voice. I wasn't expecting you to call." To be perfectly honest, Sara was dumbfounded to be talking to him at all. "Is there something you need to know?" she asked.

"No, ma'am. But I think there's something you need to know."

ooOoo

Neal surveyed the credit transactions room with a certain amount of satisfaction. Breaking a finger wasn't his first choice of how to get assigned here, but it had certainly done the trick. The rest of the detail was already at work; they made him take a test first to prove he was smart enough to do the job. Ego had him missing just enough of the questions so he wouldn't seem too much smarter than the other inmates.

Caffrey spent the first few minutes under the careful scrutiny of a guard, acquainting himself with the procedure. It was simple enough. A merchant request for funds came to his terminal, he determined the customer had the money to cover the transaction and issued the authorization to the merchant. His work was a little slower than usual, since he was short two fingers, but within the first quarter hour his babysitter was convinced he could handle it, and the guard wandered away.

It proved to be pretty boring work, though probably not any worse than a normal mortgage fraud case. None of the transactions on his terminal seemed the least bit out of line, so he tried to see the terminals around him. His terminal was at the end of a long bank of work stations, so he could only catch glimpses of the inmates next to and in front of him. He'd have to figure out a way to get closer to some of the other stations, but he wasn't ready for that yet.

After a four-hour shift, all Neal had to show for it was a sore back and an atrophied brain. He was reminded again of the benefits of being a thief and a conman. At least he got to use his brain, all of it. As he and the inmates were escorted back to their cell block, Neal realized he was going to have to get more information. Maybe he could talk to Desmond during their time in the prison yard. The other man had talked about the dangers of working up here; Neal needed to find out what they were.

ooOoo

When Peter stepped through the doors of the White Collar Division a little before 9 a.m., he was startled to find Sara Ellis pouring herself a cup of coffee in the small kitchen area. He didn't know what bothered him most, the fact that she was in the office again, that she was here before he was, or that she'd made herself at home.

"Good morning, Sara," he said brightly. "What brings you out so early?"

"We need to talk, Peter."

"Why am I not surprised?" he said to himself. To Sara he said "Just give me a few minutes to get settled and then we can talk."

"It's important."

"I'm sure that it is, but you need to give me five minutes."

"Peter . . ."

"Five minutes." Peter insisted, going up the stairs and into his office.

He did a quick check of his voice mail and his email; there were no messages from the prison in either. A furtive call down to Diana confirmed that she hadn't heard from either the prison or the warden. Pleased that nothing was wrong on that front, he grabbed his mug and went back down to fill it. He invited Sara to join him in his office.

Once they were both settled, Peter smiled a noncommittal smile that would have made Caffrey proud and asked Sara what she needed to talk about.

"Neal's in trouble," she stated without preamble.

"Sara, he's fine. I haven't heard anything from the prison. If there were a problem, they would have contacted me."

"Peter, I went to the prison yesterday."

"You did what?" The woman never ceased to amaze him. "You could blow his cover!"

"I had a cover story. I'm still trying to find that Raphael." Her smile was smug. "I even brought an NYPD detective with me."

Peter looked at her, encouraging her to continue and marveling at her nerve. And her ingenuity.

"Peter, he's hurt."

The coffee cup stopped halfway to Peter's lips.

"What?"

"One of his fingers is dislocated, another has a fracture."

"I wasn't notified." Anger and concern fought for supremacy on Peter's face. Anger won the battle. "Do you know how it happened?"

"Neal said he tripped in the machine shop." Neither Peter nor Sara believed Neal Caffrey tripped.

Peter reached for his phone to call the prison.

"Wait!" Sara reached out her hand to stop him before he could make the call. "You need to see this." She pulled a thumb drive out of her bag and handed it to him.

Peter spent the next few minutes staring at his monitor, paging through the information on the drive, his face a mixture of emotions, chief of which was fury.

"Where did you get this?" he asked. "How did you get it? Is it admissible as evidence?"

Sara looked away from the penetrating brown stare. "No. I started with a program Sterling-Bosch uses, um," she paused uncomfortably, "then I called Mozzie." She gave him a self-conscious look.

"Mozzie!" Irritation replaced the fury reflected in Agent Burke's face. "Why is it always Mozzie?" he asked rhetorically.

"Because he finds information like this," Sara answered. "Now what?"

Peter moved to the edge of the stairs. "Jones! Diana!" he summoned with an imperious two-finger point.

The two agents joined him and Sara in the conference room.

"I need you to verify, legally, the information on this drive." He handed the item to Jones.

"Boss, what's going on?" Diana asked in some confusion.

"If this information is true," he began.

"It is," Sara supplied.

"If it's true, it looks like our helpful warden is part of the scam. So is the mob."

"And he's the one who's supposed to look out for Neal while he's working undercover," Jones concluded.

"Sara said Neal's already had one 'accident,' so you can see how well that's working out." Peter said.

"So, I guess we have to pull him out," Diana sounded disappointed. Sara looked at the other woman with disbelief.

"You want to leave him there?" she asked incredulously.

"No! But if we just yank him out, the warden's going to know we're on to him. And if the mob is involved, this is big."

"Is there a way we can get him out without tipping our hand?" Jones asked as he went through the financial information Sara had provided.

"First verify that information," Peter ordered. "Then let's see what we can work out."

ooOoo

Neal was pleasantly surprised at how easy it was to get to talk to Desmond. Apparently he had a certain standing in the inmate hierarchy, an honorable man among the thieves. If he wanted to talk to someone alone, he talked to someone alone. Even better, since Desmond stood up for Neal during the altercation in the machine shop, Neal was being afforded a little protection.

The two men sat together in the day room, ostensibly playing poker for commissary tokens. Rudy, an older man Neal remembered from his last stay, and a youngish man with the unlikely name of Zeus, sat watching the action and discouraging other inmates from getting too close.

"You really are pretty stupid for a smart guy," Desmond said conversationally as he considered the cards in his hand.

"What are you talking about?" Neal asked, throwing two tokens in the pot.

"You're working up there with that credit card stuff." He threw two cards away and took two more. "I'll see you," he said, tossing two of his tokens on the table.

"What am I supposed to do?" Neal held up his injured hand. "I'm a little limited right now. I go into the machine shop to work like this, I risk dismemberment. I'm really kind of attached to my fingers."

Desmond grimaced appreciatively at the pun. "No, you're not stupid," he continued, "so what are you doing here, Caffrey?"

Neal's eyes scanned the room, but Rudy and Zeus were doing their job; nobody appeared to be within earshot. "I'm serving time, just like you," he said cautiously.

Desmond looked Neal up and down consideringly, his cards forgotten. "No you're not. You escaped; Rudy and I watched you leave." He smiled. "But they caught you and brought you back, then that FBI agent springs you again. I heard the rumors. I talked to a few guys you helped get arrested. You're no prisoner. You're a snitch."

Neal looked at the man with carefully concealed astonishment, both impressed and horrified that Desmond had put everything together so accurately.

"Don't look so surprised," Desmond continued. "I done some stupid things, but I'm not stupid."

"I never said you were."

"I'm not gonna turn you in, either, if that's what you're worried about. You're working with the Feds, fine. We all make up for our mistakes in our own ways. If you're trying to stop that operation upstairs, good. I just wanna keep you alive."

"Yeah, I'm working with the Feds."

Neal put his cards on the table, face up; Desmond followed suit, grimacing as Neal smiled and took the pot.

"Listen, I was in there for four hours today," Neal continued. "All they're doing is processing credit card authorizations. What are you so upset about?"

Desmond leaned across the table and lowered his voice. "You work in there for a while, do a good job, and they move you to one of the special terminals. There are some special codes you put in. If you won't do it, one of the guards takes you out for a little talk." Desmond's dark eyes bore into Neal's lighter ones. "One of the guys never came back from that talk. The story was he had a 'cerebral incident' out in the yard. Don't that sound fancy? They beat that poor sucker to death. You gotta know what you're playing with."

Rudy shifted positions abruptly; one of the guards was heading in their direction.

"This has got to be stopped," Neal said in a low, intense voice. "Especially if people are being hurt. I can help stop it."

"Not if they get you first."

The guard, Mantino, looked over Desmond's shoulder. "Is there a problem here?" he asked.

"Yeah! This guy cheats!" Desmond jumped up from his seat, Rudy and Zeus flanking him. "Nobody's that lucky," he continued, "this little SOB is too smart for his own good."

Neal remained seated, innocence positively radiating from his face.

"Come on, Caffrey, play time's over. Back to your cell." Mantino grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. "You've only been here five days and you've caused more trouble than three cons put together."

As the guard dragged him back to his cell, Neal looked over his shoulder at Desmond, conveying his thanks. The man had managed to tell him what was happening, warn him, and set him up for one of the "special terminals," all in the space of ten minutes. The guy was smart.

ooOoo

Jones, Diana and Sara sat in the conference room, watching the drama being played out in Reese Hughes's office. Even though from their vantage point the discussion was silent, it was easy to tell from facial expressions and body language that the discussion was heated.

"This isn't good, is it?" Sara asked after five minutes.

"We really have no idea what's going on," Jones said calmly. "There's no need to jump to conclusions."

They watched in silence as Peter raised his hands in the air, then spun away from his superior, running a hand through his hair. Hughes raised a hand, then dropped it.

"No, this isn't good," Diana said.

"It really isn't," Jones concurred.

The office door opened and Hughes stalked out, followed by Peter. They came into the conference room like an impending storm, dark and menacing.

Hughes gave Sara a brief, harsh look as he strode to the head of the conference table. "Ms. Ellis," he said, "I wasn't aware you were working for the FBI." He turned his head toward Peter. "Burke, get the rest of your team up here."

Peter shot Sara a quick, apologetic glance before heading to the railing to summon the rest of his team.

As the rest of the agents settled themselves, Jones posted the information he had gathered, along with the material Sara had provided on the large conference monitor.

"Okay, people, apparently there is a little more to the prison credit card scam then we originally thought." Hughes flicked a careless hand at the monitor. "It has been brought to our attention" his eyes met Sara's briefly, "that Warden Haskly has a personal cash-flow problem and he's using the credit card numbers as a piggy bank. He's also using one of the local families to launder the take." Hughes ran a hand over his mouth. "Blake, let Organized Crime know what's going on."

Agent Blake made a note on his pad.

"The question now is what to do with our man on the inside."

Sara was surprised to hear it was a question. Weren't they going to pull Neal out? She looked at Peter, trying to gauge his thoughts. Catching her look, he gestured with his hand, telling her to keep her thoughts to herself. Since she knew she was lucky to even be included in this meeting, she worked to restrain herself.

"The good news is that this new information puts us in a better position to take down a major operation," Hughes continued. "We don't know what Caffrey's situation is right now . . ."

"There's already been an accident!" Sara blurted out, drawing the senior agent's attention back to her.

"Accidents happen in prisons, Ms. Ellis, as I'm sure Caffrey can tell you. He did spend a healthy amount of time there before he volunteered to go in for this assignment."

The reprimand was subtle, but it was there. She was there at Hughes indulgence, she better keep her mouth shut.

"I believe," Hughes forged on, "that Caffrey can handle himself. The question is whether he still has value as an undercover agent, since it appears the warden is part of the problem. Burke, what is your view?"

Sara was certain she knew what Peter would say; his answer sent her into shock.

"I'd like to leave him in, if possible. We have a chance to take down something big, here. Caffrey's skills are legend, and I agree he can take care of himself for the short term." Sara thought of the injured hand and cringed inwardly. "What we need to do is contact him and get him this new information." Peter looked around the room. "Ideas, anyone?" he asked.

Silence greeted him.

"We can't just go in and talk to him." Blake made it a statement, rather than a question.

"I'm sure everybody inside knows he's worked for the FBI. Any sign of us now and they'll know he's an informant." Peter looked over at Hughes, still standing at the head of the table.

"When you have it figured out, let me know." Hughes stalked back to his office.

"Anyone?" Peter asked again.

Free of Reese Hughes's forbidding presence, Sara offered a suggestion. "I can go back again. It was pretty obvious I wasn't happy with the results of our last interview."

Peter looked at the woman, and feeling a certain sympathy toward her, didn't make the remark that was on the tip of his tongue. Obviously the NYPD detective had seen through Sara's cover story, figuring her interest in Caffrey was personal, not professional. Peter was certain at least some of the guards had it figured out as well. That could put both Neal and Sara at risk.

"Not this time, Sara." Peter said gently.

Sara was about to object when Agent Blake looked up. "What about his attorney?"

"What about him?" Peter asked shortly. If Peter was unsure of his feelings toward Neal since El's kidnapping, he was even more uncertain of how to deal with Mozzie. It had been Mozzie who stole the treasure to begin with, causing the domino effect of disasters that followed. It also had been a shaken and contrite Mozzie who was instrumental in getting his wife back. Until he could figure it out, Peter had been trying to avoid the little man altogether.

"He can meet with his attorney in private. No one can listen in or question anything they say to one another." Blake looked up innocently. "It's the perfect solution."

"He's right," Sara added, "Mozzie would be perfect."

Jones and Diana watched as Blake's eyes widened in comprehension. He was the only person in the room unaware of just who Caffrey's lawyer was.

Silence filled the conference room. Finally, Peter sighed in exasperation.

"Fine. We need to call Mozzie in. Sara, you're friends with him; you make the call.

ooOoo

Neal stood in his cell, waiting to join the other inmates being herded up to the credit card room. He was surprised to see Mantino unlock the door; he'd been hoping for guard who didn't hate his guts. Well, he had been complaining about the lack of challenge in his job – let's see how far he could get with the man.

"Good morning," Neal said brightly.

There was no response from the guard. No surprise there, he'd just try again.

"I'm really enjoying the new duty," he went on companionably.

"Well, I'm glad you're enjoying your stay," was the response from Mantino. That and a sharp shove in the center of Neal's back as he joined the row of inmates heading upstairs.

As the row of orange clad men moved slowly up the stairs and down the hallway, Neal made sure he stayed abreast of Mantino, chattering away.

"The only problem is, the whole procedure is a little boring." Neal leaned in toward the guard and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "All those bank accounts, all the money those people are spending. It would be so easy to just skim a little extra."

Mantino grabbed Neal's arm and pulled him out of line, flattening him against the opposite wall. Whether by accident or design, the injured hand made forceful contact with the wall. Neal's face paled slightly from the pain, but he just smiled at the guard.

"Caffrey," Mantino growled menacingly, "you are a particular pain in my ass. If I had my way, I'd just pound your head into the wall and be done with you." Neal didn't doubt the veracity of that statement. "I'm stuck with you, though," he continued, "because of your Fed buddies. I know why you're here, but that doesn't mean I'm going to make it easy for you. You're a snitch, and nobody likes a snitch."

Mantino pulled Neal by the arm and shoved him into the work room, then spun on his heel and disappeared back down the hallway, leaving the other man to rub his bruises and make his way unsteadily to his work station.

Okay, so that didn't work so well, Neal thought philosophically as he set to work. He just needed to find another way to get the proof he needed to get the hell out of there.

One boring hour of credit authorizations later, it appeared Neal's luck had changed for the better. He had noticed an empty terminal on the other side of the room but hadn't come up with a way to get himself assigned to it. He was pleasantly surprised when a guard motioned for him to move to that workstation. This terminal worked differently than the one he had been using, he was told. He was instructed to key in a different code than the one he had been using before.

It took him maybe ten authorizations before he saw the skim. Ten dollars over on one transaction, twenty dollars on another. The third transaction went through for the exact amount. There was no pattern; the amounts taken were both small and completely random. It was clever, Neal thought. He wondered vaguely who the hacker was who had designed the program.

He needed some way to record the illicit transactions, he realized. Then he would have the proof they needed and _he would be out!_ Obviously, now was the time to get in touch with the warden.

ooOoo

The door to the warden's office banged open against the wall as Mantino stormed in.

"Are you out of your mind?" He stood, booted toes at the edge of the desk, leaning over the seated man.

"You're forgetting yourself, officer," the warden replied calmly. Only the twitch of his hands, clasped tightly on his desk, gave away his fear of the guard.

"Give it a rest, Haskly." However, Mantino did lower his voice to a more conversational tone. They were already in trouble, he thought. There was no reason to attract unwanted attention.

"Have a seat," the warden suggested.

After he lowered himself into a chair, Mantino continued. "How could you let Caffrey have access to a machine we're using to steal money?"

"Anytime we keep him away from something, he only gets more suspicious. I doubt he was able to uncover any of our appropriations." Apparently Warden Haskly wasn't comfortable with the word steal.

"This isn't Fantasy Island, Haskly." Mantino glared across the desk. "Caffrey's no idiot. It won't take him long to figure out what's going on, then he just has to let his handlers know."

"The only way he can communicate with the FBI is through me," Haskly replied smugly. "Do you think I'm going to tell them?"

"What about his attorney? Or that woman who came to see him?" Mantino jumped up again. "She came with an NYPD detective, for God's sake! I saw him in the break room."

Haskly's head jerked up; his hands twisting nervously on the desk. He hadn't known about the visitors. He stood up, keeping the desk between himself and the angry guard.

"Mantino, I'm trusting you to take care of this situation. Don't come barging in here again until this matter is dealt with."

"Washing your hands of the whole thing, huh? It's probably better that way." Mantino's smile was derisive "Just remember, it was your problems that started this operation."

Mantino walked to the door, then turned to face the warden one more time. "I'll see Caffrey's taken care of, but remember this – if I go down, I'm making sure you go down with me."

ooOoo

Things were definitely looking up, Neal thought happily. He had the information Peter needed to make his case. All he had to do was get in to see the warden. Once that was done he was home free. Oh yes, home and free! Another case closed could only help make things right with Peter. It wouldn't hurt at his probation hearing either.

"Hey, Neal, you got another visitor." Bobby stood looking in at him.

Neal hurried to the door of his cell.

"Who is it, Bobby?"

"You sure are nosey, aren't you?" Bobby asked, smiling as he unlocked the door. "It looks like it really is your lawyer this time. Funny looking little guy with glasses and a bow tie."

Neal stepped out into the hallway, allowing Bobby to take him by the arm. This time it was Mozzie, he thought. He wasn't sure if he was happy or disappointed that Sara hadn't come back.

"Hey, Bobby?" Neal asked suddenly. "Can we make a little detour?"

Bobby stopped and looked at Neal. "You do remember this is prison, don't you? I really can't take you wherever you want to go."

Neal lowered his voice and slowed his steps. "You know why I'm really here, don't you?"

"Yeah," Bobby said slowly. "All the guards do."

"I have some information that I need to get to the warden."

"Okay." Bobby seemed to hesitate for a moment. "Why don't you go talk to your lawyer first," he suggested.

"Moz will be okay waiting for me," Neal explained.

"Moz?" the guard asked, confused.

"My lawyer. It's a long story. Look, now is the perfect time. You came to get me for a visitor; no one's going to know about a quick visit to the warden."

"Are you sure?"

Neal smiled confidently. "Yes. Take me to the warden's office – now."


	5. Chapter 5

_A/n: I'm very sorry about the long delay - mea culpa. Also, please remember I started this shortly after _Checkmate_so all the other stuff that's happened in Season 3.5 isn't going to be included in this story._

**Prisoners of Our Own Mistakes**

Chapter 5

Bobby smiled as he lifted the clipboard out of its slot. _D. Haversham, Esq., _he read. Pretty big name for a little guy like that, he thought. Bobby knew he shouldn't talk to the man; if Neal were a real prisoner he'd be breaking the law. But Neal wasn't a real prisoner, and Bobby couldn't help himself. He just had to meet a friend of Neal's, especially one with the unlikely name of Mozzie.

"Mr. Haversham?" Bobby said politely as he walked in the small room.

Mozzie stood up, looking like he'd like to make a break for it. "Where's Neal?" he asked nervously.

"He'll be right along, he had a stop to make." Bobby said evasively. He didn't know how much Haversham knew; let him think what he would about the purpose of the stop.

"Well, his timing is bad," Mozzie complained.

Bobby smiled as he looked the other man up and down. His smile grew broader as he took in Mozzie's vest, the suede patches at the elbows of his jacket, and especially the bow tie.

"You a friend of Neal's?" Bobby asked.

"I'm his attorney," was the prim response. "And you're not supposed to be talking to me."

"Neal said you were a friend."

"I'm his attorney." Mozzie pushed his glasses up his nose and looked defiantly at the larger man.

"I'm kind of a friend, too. My name is Bobby." He extended his hand. Mozzie hesitated, then offered his own hand. Tentatively.

"Neal talked about you," Mozzie said. "He said you were one of the good ones."

Bobby's smile broadened; Neal's comment pleased him. "So, you really a lawyer?" he asked.

"Yes, I am." Mozzie looked indignantly at the guard. "I have a degree."

"Good to know," was Bobby's answer. "You don't look like most of the lawyers I see. You trying to look like Matlock?"

"I was trying for Atticus Finch," Mozzie explained, "but I'll accept your analogy."

"You sure talk like a lawyer," Bobby observed. "At least you're not trying to be Denny Crane."

"I would never work for an establishment firm." Mozzie pulled himself up straight. "But at least he never lost a case."

"That's true."

The conversation seemingly over, the two men stood silent for a few long seconds.

"Where's Neal?" Mozzie asked with some concern. "He's a big boy; it shouldn't take him this long."

"I never said that's what he was doing." Bobby shifted a little where he stood.

"Well, then, where is he?"

Bobby studied Mozzie, then answered truthfully. "He asked to see the warden."

"No!" The single word was uttered with such vehemence Bobby stepped back a pace.

"The warden may be a little wishy-washy, but I don't think he's that bad," Bobby said, looking puzzled.

"This is bad," Mozzie said to himself. Looking at the guard, he continued. "Do you know why Neal is here?" Seeing Bobby's uncertain look, he clarified his question. "The real reason he's here."

"Yes," was the careful answer.

"The warden is in on the scam! He needs the money; he has gambling debts." Mozzie said in frustration. "This isn't good," he repeated.

"How do you know?" Bobby wasn't about to accuse someone, especially his boss, on the word of this strange little man.

"Because I find things out! And it was confirmed by the suits – and by S . . . " Mozzie stopped before he said Sara's name.

"So you, and the Feds, and Ms. Ellis," Mozzie's eyes widened at the mention of Sara, "all agree Warden Haskly is in on this?"

"And the mob," Mozzie added.

Bobby sighed. "You stay here," he instructed. "I guess I better go get Neal."

ooOoo

Neal sensed wrongness even before he walked into Warden Haskly's office; the occupants of the office just confirmed his feeling. He had expected the warden to be there, of course, but Mantino – looking at Neal the same way he might regard a poisonous spider, just confirmed to Neal that he was in trouble.

Mantino sat across from the warden, drinking whiskey and looking very much at home, very much in control of everything that happened in the office. It took all of Neal's self control to keep from turning on his heels and leaving as quickly as he could. He remembered again that he had unintentionally made a fool of this man when he escaped prison two years ago. He had made an enemy that day, and now that enemy was in the perfect position to return the favor.

Proceed very carefully, he told himself.

"Warden. Officer." Neal smiled and nodded politely at each man.

"What is it, Caffrey?" the warden asked disdainfully. The man's face was calm, but his tightly clasped hands trembled ever so slightly. Oh, yes, Neal thought, Mantino was in charge here.

"I wanted to let you know how my assignment was going," Neal continued innocently. "I haven't had a chance to speak to you before now."

"And how is it going?" the warden asked.

"I haven't seen a sign of anything illegal going on here, sir." He gave a casual shrug. "Not with the credit cards, at least. Certainly the inmates try to get away with what they can, but they're criminals."

"Like you are," Mantino reminded him.

"Yes, sir," Neal agreed. He needed to be careful to not be too agreeable or it would seem suspicious. He was walking a very thin line, here. And right now he needed to come up with a safe exit strategy.

"It's possible the FBI made a mistake about the source of the thefts," he continued. "Another day or so, and I should be able to get out of here."

The warden looked pleasantly surprised at this possibility; Mantino looked disappointed.

"So, snitch," the guard snarled. "You come here, cause trouble in the dining hall, trouble in the machine shop, and then just leave again?" He fingered his night stick like he really wanted to use it.

"Hey!" Neal held both of his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I just go where they send me."

"You're handler isn't going to be too happy with you, is he?" Mantino was now gripping the handle of the night stick. "I hear he isn't too happy with you anyway. He might not mind if I taught you a thing or two." The night stick was out now, and Mantino was smiling. So much for the safe exit, Neal thought unhappily.

"Good God!" Haskly objected, speaking to the guard. "Not in my office!"

Mantino turned to glare at the warden. "You make me sick," he ground out.

A peremptory knock on the office door halted whatever might have happened next. Mantino slid the cudgel back into his belt as the door opened and Bobby stuck his head inside the office. His eyes took in every detail, even as he smiled affably at the warden.

"Sorry, sir. I don't mean to intrude, but his lawyer," he inclined his head towards Neal, "is starting to make a stink. I don't want him to cause trouble for you, sir." Bobby stood in the doorway; a mountain that wasn't going to be moved.

"Fine! Get him out of here." Haskly indicated with a wave of his hand.

"Come on, Caffrey." Bobby took his upper arm in a tight grip. "You've caused enough trouble in here." He pushed Neal ahead of him out into the hallway.

"Thanks, Bobby," Neal breathed as they headed away from the office.

"You'd do better thanking that odd little lawyer friend of yours." Bobby suggested. "And your girlfriend."

ooOoo

"Neal, pull the plug on this! It was a stupid idea to begin with, now it's just worse." Mozzie's anger manifested in rapid pacing back and forth across the small room. It was making Neal crazy.

"Moz," Neal begged wearily, "will you please sit down." He'd had more than enough drama for one day, and his friend wasn't helping.

"So, get your friendly guard to take you back to your cell, pack your things. I'll call the Suit and he can get you sprung." Mozzie headed for the door, ready to call Bobby.

"Mozzie, I can't just leave. The warden is dirty, half the guards are dirty." He paused, thinking of the best way to continue – the best way to explain his situation to his friend. "Moz, you have to understand, there are decent people here who are being hurt. I can't just walk away from that."

"Neal, it's prison, not a resort."

"Yeah, I know it's prison. I spent four years here," Neal reminded his friend. "That doesn't mean the people here are any less deserving of a fair deal. They shouldn't have to be afraid to NOT break the law."

Mozzie didn't say anything, he was obviously considering what Neal had said.

"You're not doing this just to make the suits happy?"

"What?" Neal looked surprised. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"It crossed my mind."

"Yeah, maybe that's what I was doing at first." Neal conceded. "I want Peter to see I can do the job. Yeah, I want him to say good things at my hearing, but that's not why I want to stay." He stood up and walked around the room himself. "There are people here who are trying to do the right thing. They just want to do their time and go home. I want to help them." He stopped and looked at Mozzie. "Some of them are my friends." He laughed, sharp and bitter. "I could have been one of them. Who knows, in a few weeks I could be one of them."

Mozzie looked across the room without seeing, his face introspective. He never had been able to cure Neal of his altruism. "Fine," he said as if he understood. "So, what can we do to make this go faster – and keep you from getting killed?"

"I've seen how they're skimming the money. It's clever." Neal sat at the table again. "There has to be some way to record the illegal transactions." Neal looked at his friend. "I just don't know how to do it. Whoever wrote the programming is good."

Neal watched as a smile spread across Mozzie's face.

"It's a good thing I know someone who's even better," the little man said happily.

"It has to be undetectable," Neal cautioned him.

"Really? You have to say this to me?"

"Sorry." Neal smiled, too. The smile slowly faded. "How are you going to get anything to me? You know they go through all the mail." Neal made a face. "And we get searched."

"I'll bring it to you. Whatever it is will be small." Mozzie was in planning mode now. "I can come see you as often as I want as your attorney" he pointed out. "We can call it a welfare check, since you've been hurt and all." He pointed to Neal's bandaged hand.

"Okay, that'll work," Neal agreed.

Mozzie headed for the door. Before he called for Bobby, he stopped to look at his friend.

"Neal, keep your head down." His face was deadly serious now. "Be very careful."

"I will." Neal smiled at the smaller man. "Thanks."

ooOoo

Peter looked at the faces waiting expectantly for him and he found himself wondering, again, how his career had taken this left turn. Well, no, his career hadn't taken the left turn – just how he did his job, courtesy of Neal Caffrey.

"Okay," he began, looking around the conference room. "Let's make sure we're all up to speed on the prison operation."

He knew Jones and Diana were aware of the newest developments. Blake, Wesley, and the other agents conscientiously picked up their pens, ready to take notes. Sara Ellis tapped her own pen impatiently while Mozzie sat at the far end of the table, nervously rocking back and forth. He still acted like he expected to be abducted every time he was in the FBI offices.

"We now know that Warden Haskly and at least some of the guards are in on the credit card scheme." Peter noted several shocked faces. He wasn't too surprised. He never particularly liked the warden, and his gut was rarely wrong.

"It also appears that some of the prisoners are being coerced to participate in the scam. At least one inmate has died because he refused to cooperate."

"So you're going to pull Caffrey out?" Agent Blake looked up from his notepad. "Was he able to get any usable evidence?"

Peter looked around the conference room; all eyes were focused on him. "Caffrey doesn't want to be pulled out," he said heavily. "He said he wants to keep anyone else from being hurt." Diana and Jones both looked evenly back at him; they understood Neal – and his unique version of right and wrong. Blake had known Caffrey long enough to not be surprised, but Wesley seemed a little unsure.

At the other end of the table, Mozzie issued a loud harrumph of disgust at his friend's decision, and Sara's pen was tapping so rapidly that it took all of Burke's patience to keep from reaching over and pulling it out of her hand. Officially, these two people were here as guests of the FBI. They had no say in the conduct of any investigation and could be asked to leave at any time. Yet somehow, they were both integral to his plans, and Neal's safety. Yup, the White Collar Division had definitely taken a left turn.

"Neal witnessed the skimming taking place during the transactions but has no way to document it." Mozzie issued another irritated harrumph, Peter tried very hard to ignore him.

"If we can get a cloner to him . . . " Jones began.

"If you mean that monstrosity you used before," Mozzie scoffed.

"Hey, that's cutting edge technology! I suppose you have something better." Jones positively bristled with irritation.

"As a matter of fact I do." Mozzie pulled a tiny device from his shirt pocket and laid it on the table.

'Wow, that's really amazing." Sara picked it up and inspected it. It was about the size of a coat button.

"Our tech guys went over it, tested it out," Peter began.

"And I suppose they copied it," Mozzie interrupted. "That's patent infringement!"

"Like your girlfriend is going to patent any of . . . " Jones started.

"Okay, settle down!" Peter glared at the two men. "Like I was saying, the tech guys looked it over and gave it their okay.," Mozzie made an undefined noise, but said nothing. "We can use this cloner, and it will be admissible as evidence."

Diana looked across at Peter. "How are we going to get it to Caffrey?" she asked. "They're pretty strict with cell searches, and, er, other searches," she finished lamely.

"I can go back and pass it to him," Sara offered. Several people gave her curious looks, obviously envisioning just how she might pass something to Neal.

"What?" she asked in all innocence.

"I told Neal I would come back for a welfare check. I'll go tomorrow. The cloner should fit in the bandages on his hand without anyone noticing," Mozzie explained. "Sure is convenient his finger's broken." He looked straight at Peter.

"Okay, then we're good to go. Once we have the information from the cloner ,we can go back in with a warrant and get Neal out."

Peter started gathering his materials together as the meeting broke up. He was ready to follow his agents out the door, when he stopped and turned to Mozzie, who was deep in conversation with Sara. He moved closer, wanting to catch the little man before he left, but froze when their voices became audible. He didn't want to eavesdrop, but somehow couldn't help himself.

"Do you think he's okay in there?" Sara was asking.

"I told him to keep his head down. I guess he's being as careful as he can be. You know Neal."

"I do know him, that's the problem." Sara sighed in exasperation. "He has a damn quixotic streak and half the time he just doesn't think."

"I think he was able to convince the warden the investigation was going nowhere. That should buy him a couple of days." Mozzie looked up at Sara. "We can only hope," he concluded.

"Thanks for all you're doing, Mozzie." Sara touched him lightly on the arm before she left. She ignored Peter completely.

"Suit." Mozzie turned his attention to Peter.

Everything Peter was going to say to Mozzie skated away on the thin ice of the conversation he had just overheard.

"Mozzie, we're going to get Neal out of there as soon as we can."

"He never should have gone in."

"He volunteered!" Peter defended himself.

"He volunteered because he wants to be back on your good side, Suit."

Peter said nothing. He couldn't argue with the truth.

"And you let him go to teach him a lesson, didn't you?"

"No!" Had he? My God, was that possible?

"Are you sure?" Mozzie's look was scathing. "Yeah, we'll get him back, but maybe you should think about why he's there at all."

ooOoo

Peter stared into the darkness, listening as Satchmo scratched at his bed, rearranging it for the night. The dog scratched one final time, spun in a circle and dropped down with a thud. Soon he was snoring away in happy doggy slumber.

Peter wished it were that easy for him, but sleep was doing it's level best to avoid his pursuit. And sleep was evading him with a skill that rivaled Neal Caffrey's. That was probably because he couldn't stop thinking about the man. The thief and conman had been plaguing his thoughts for the last day, ever since Mozzie had come back from the prison and passed on the details of his conversation with Neal.

If he were to be perfectly honest with himself, though, the problem wasn't Neal this time, it was Peter. Peter was still smarting from the lies Neal told him about the Nazi art. The worst part, though, wasn't the lies of the conman – it was the betrayal by a friend; a betrayal that had endangered his wife. He was angry and hurt, and he was having a hard time forgiving. He knew he would never forget. Peter turned restlessly in the bed and willed his mind to turn off.

There was no chance of that, it seemed. His last conversation with Mozzie haunted him as badly as anything else. Was it possible that he had leapt at the possibility of a little payback for Neal? Payback when Neal was vulnerable and trying to win back his trust? It frightened Peter to think that his feelings would make him that petty. Worse, that he had willingly let Neal go into a dangerous situation – to get even.

Peter shifted again, and heaved a heavy sigh. He didn't like to have to question his own motives. He hoped he was above that sort of behavior.

"Peter?" Elizabeth's sleepy voice broke through his rambling thoughts.

"Sorry, honey. Did I wake you?"

"Yes. Is something wrong?"

"No. I guess I'm a little restless tonight." That was putting it mildly.

"Oh." Elizabeth wasn't convinced. "Is there anything you want to talk about?"

"No."

She propped herself up on one elbow, leaning over her husband in the dark. "Well, either you get it out of your system or one of us sleeps downstairs. And it isn't going to be me."

Peter surrendered with a snort of laughter. "It's Neal."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"And it's me."

"Well, that's different." Elizabeth reached over and flipped on the light. Satchmo looked up hopefully, then laid his head back down with a sigh when nothing else happened. "So tell me about it," El said encouragingly.

"El, he's in a really dangerous situation, and I sent him there."

"Well, this isn't the first time," she pointed out.

"No . . ."

"And he could have said no."

"Could he have, El? He's still a prisoner of sorts. He has to do what I tell him, or I can revoke his probation. I don't know how many times I've reminded him of that." Peter stared off into a dark corner of the room, remembering.

"But you didn't put him in harm's way intentionally."

"I'm not so sure."

"What? Peter!" Elizabeth was indignant. No one talked about her husband that way, not even her husband.

"El," he continued painfully, speaking truths he didn't want to hear. "I've been angry and hurt. I'm not sure I checked everything out as carefully as I should have. I'm afraid I wanted to punish him for what he did to me – and what he did to you."

"Neal didn't do anything to me, Keller did," she said firmly. "And the Peter Burke I know would never stoop to anything as shallow as retribution."

Peter drew a breath, but El placed a gentle hand over his lips before he could speak.

"However," she continued, "if you think you've made a mistake, you need to correct it. You need to make things right." She smiled wisely in the dim light. "You can't let your mistakes hold you prisoner; you can't let them take over your life."

The bedroom was silent, its occupants still. Then Peter smiled and pulled his wife into a fierce embrace. "How did I end up with a wife who's so smart?" he asked breathlessly after he finished kissing her.

"You're just lucky, I guess." Elizabeth punched him playfully in the shoulder. "Now either go downstairs or go to sleep." She turned off the light and wrapped herself around her husband.

ooOoo

Neal was happy to be locked in his cell for the night, which said quite a lot about how his day had gone. Lying motionless on the narrow bunk, he supposed he shouldn't complain, since there was nothing new broken and he wasn't bleeding, but he really was tired of the "accidental" shoves and trips. It appeared his role as snitch for the FBI was common knowledge throughout the prison now, and no one liked a snitch. No one – not guards, not prisoners. He was sure it was all Mantino's doing. Obviously the population here feared the guard more than any punishment the FBI might put into effect. Of course they did! The FBI was constrained by pesky legalities; Mantino obviously didn't have that problem.

The verbal intimidation was much worse than any physical bullying, as far as Neal was concerned. If someone shoved you into a wall, it hurt for a few minutes but then it was over. Plus, Desmond and his associates, and Bobby of course, were able to offer him at least some physical protection. But threats made by gang members and mob soldiers toward the people he cared about and had no way to protect, those haunted him long after the threats were made. Both Mozzie and Sara had been here, making them obvious targets, and the people making the threats had contacts outside the prison.

Neal sighed heavily, contemplating the road that had brought him to this point. He could see the path clearly, of course, one thoughtless decision after another, leading to the perfect storm of disasters – Peter betrayed, Elizabeth in danger, Mozzie angry, and Sara gone.

Great job, Caffrey, he thought fiercely. A couple of damaged fingers were cheap payment for the havoc he'd caused. The most painful realization of all was the knowledge that he would be paying for those mistakes for the rest of his life; prison without parole.

Neal stood up, walking to the cell door and peering out through the bars. The guard at the end of the block started walking toward him. Neal backed away quickly.

"Away from the door, Caffrey." The guard banged at the bars with his baton, arousing the ire of several nearby prisoners.

Neal sat on the edge of his bunk, hands on his thighs, the picture of innocence. The guard muttered an obscenity and moved back to his post.

He edged back on the bunk until he sat leaning against the wall. He knew he couldn't undo what was already done, but maybe he could make a difference for some of the people here. Once he had the proper tools, he could record the illegal transactions and get the information back to Peter and the FBI. He was pretty sure he'd convinced Warden Haskly that his investigation was a bust. The man would be happy to see him leave, and he would be none the wiser when the Feds arrested him.

Smiling at the thought, he lay back on the bed and tried to sleep. He needed to be sharp for tomorrow.

ooOoo

Warden Haskly sat in his dark office, looking mournfully at the empty bottle of bourbon on the desk in front of him. That was his last bottle; he needed to remember to bring more in. Mantino ought to reimburse him. He was sure the guard drank as much of the stuff as he did.

He knew he should go home, but he had no desire to do so. His wife would either scold him for leaving her alone, or whine that she needed more money. Well, the money wasn't going to happen any time soon. His latest off-track bets had netted him one thousand dollars – in the negative. There was no way he was going to pay off his own personal mob enforcer; he was in way too deep. How long would it take his wife to remarry after they found his body floating in Croton Bay? Not long, he expected.

With a fury that surprised him, he picked up the empty bottle and hurled it at the opposite wall. The resulting explosion of glass was oddly satisfying. It was the only thing that did satisfy him right now.

He was trapped, held captive as surely as any of the inmates who were under his watch. Though his crimes weren't those of theft or violence, but rather of cowardice and greed, his chances of parole were virtually nonexistent. He'd done this to himself – and now he was going to pay.

Before Caffrey's impromptu visit to his office, he'd actually felt hopeful. Maybe the FBI wouldn't discover the clever little scheme he had put into motion along with the mob and that worm Mantino. But no, as soon as the despicable man had started talking, he realized Caffrey had been doing his best to con them – and save his own neck.

Well, he'd failed on both counts. He and Mantino knew the only solution was to silence Caffrey before he had a chance to talk to Agent Burke. Mantino said he'd take care of it.

On top of all his other sins, the Warden realized, he could now add accessory to murder.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: I am embarassed about how long it took me to update this? You bet! Am I going to make excuses? No. My life imploded; now I have it back in some sort of tenous control. The good news is, I'm already working on the next chapter. At least I think it's good news. Please note, this chapter really needs the T rating. There is violence and some **bad** language; the kind you would expect from an evil prison guard._

**Chapter 6**

Seating himself at his work station, Neal looked dismally around the room. His senses were tingling again. There were more guards than ususal on duty, and they were all focused on him. It looked like Mantino had brought all his friends to work with him today. They were very big friends.

The small device hidden in the bandages crossing his palm seemed to eat directly into Neal's skin. He flicked his eyes desperately around the room; he didn't see any way he was going to be able to slip it into the USB port without one of the guards seeing him. He wondered if faking a seizure would be enough of a distraction. He didn't really like that route, the trip to the infirmary that would inevitably follow wouldn't be any fun, but desperate times . . .

"Caffrey! Do you think you're here just to look pretty? Get to work!" Mantino's voice rang through the large office, like the sound of brakes squealing on a semi. Neal sent the guard a lackluster smile before turning to his monitor.

Fifteen more credit card transactions, three more cardholders ripped off, and Neal still hadn't found a way to slip the drive into the port. It looked like writhing on the floor was going to be the way to go, Neal thought unhappily. One of the larger guards was standing just behind him, watching every keystroke, when his way out became obvious.

"Could you back up a little," Neal asked the guard hovering over him. He hoped he put just the right amount of tremor in his voice.

"What's wrong, Caffrey? Are you doing something I shouldn't see?"

Not yet, Neal thought. "No," he replied nervously. "You're just a a little close in my personal space."

"Your personal space?" The guard laughed unpleasantly. "You're a con. You don't have any personal space." The guard leaned in over Caffrey; Neal could feel the warm breath on the back of his neck. Just a little bit closer, he willed the guard, as he pulled slowly away.

Obviously enjoying the intimidation, the guard leaned in even closer, trying to get into Neal's face. Neal chose the exact moment the large man was overbalanced to leap up, back, and away. His head came up with a pleasing thump on the point of the guard's chin.

Crying out in pain, the guard swung wildly at Caffrey with his fist. Neal ducked nimbly underneath the man's arm, deftly inserting the drive into the USB port before falling to the ground, dragging the keyboard with him. He lay there, nursing his injured hand in semi-feigned pain.

"Caffrey! You are the biggest fuck-up I have ever seen!" Mantino charged into the fray, shoving both inmates and guards out of the way in his effort to reach Neal. The guard Neal had head-butted scrambled out of Mantino's way.

Mantino dragged Neal roughly to his feet, shoving him against a wall. With the guard's nightstick forced into his throat, effectively cutting off all air, Neal was starting to think the faked fit routine might have been the better option after all. It beat suffocation.

"I should kill you," Mantino snarled, his face inches away from his captive's. "But there are too many witnesses here." He pulled the cudgel back, leaving Neal to cough and gasp for breath. "I'm going to take you to the hole," he continued in the same low growl. "Let's hope you don't have an accident along the way." Neal silently agreed.

"Get this room in order!" the guard yelled over his shoulder as he manhandled his prisoner out the door, "and get these useless pieces of filth back to work. We aren't running a resort around here."

ooOoo

Neal stretched out on the thin mattress in his tiny cell and wondered how much time had passed since Mantino had dumped him in solitary confinement. It must be five or six hours, he reasoned, based on the complaints his stomach was sending him. It struck him that if being unable to track the passing time and a little hunger were the worst of his complaints, he was actually doing pretty good.

He had seen no one since Mantino had delivered him to the guard on duty in this remote part of the prison. Neal could only see that as a good thing – no contact meant no one was going to beat him or try to kill him. His time alone also gave him a chance to assess his situation. Physically, his hand hurt and his throat hurt; oh, and his arm, where Mantino had held him in a death grip on their way down to his current local. He could live with that, he knew none of his injuries were permanent.

Mentally, he was a little more bothered. He'd managed to get the cloner placed, but now he didn't know how he was going to get it back. Neal had been in prison long enough to know that his performance this morning wasn't going to win him his cushy job back. If he was lucky, he'd be assigned to the laundry. If he were unlucky . . . well, he didn't want to think about that possibility.

It sure would be nice to have a cellphone right now, he mused. Or Peter and the guys in the van to back him up. His bitter laugh echoed sharply off the cold concrete walls. He never would have imagined a time when he was wishing for that damn van.

"Something funny in there, Caffrey?"

Neal rolled quickly to his feet, injuries forgotten.

"Bobby?" He peered through the small, barred window in the cell door.

Neal could hear keys in the lock and stepped back as the door swung open.

"You know," Bobby said casually, "I really don't know why I like you. You are more trouble than a three-year-old." The big man waved his hand affably towards the corridor outside the cell. "Get out here."

Neal quickly complied. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Do you want to stay here?" Bobby asked in return.

"Not really. But I thought I was stuck here until Mantino got me out. Or I died, whichever came first."

"Neal, there are rules."

Neal looked at the man with obvious disbelief.

"He couldn't just leave you there without filing a bunch of paperwork," Bobby explained.

"Once again I need to be thankful for government bureaucracy," Neal intoned with a sigh. "So, handcuffs?" he asked the guard.

"Nah, too much work for a skinny guy like you. Anyway, I know you could slip 'em." Bobby gave Neal a gentle shove and they both started down the hallway towards General Population. "Besides, if you try anything .. ."

"I know," Neal smiled, "you'll taze me." They walked in silence down the hallway. "Hey, you ever actually taze anybody?" Neal asked curiously.

"Me? No. Those things are too dangerous. Other guards do, though, so you be careful," Bobby warned.

"Let me guess," Neal said sourly, "Mantino does."

"Yeah," Bobby agreed, "but he really likes his club the best." Bobby reached around Neal, unlocking the door back into GenPop.

ooOoo

The way the timing worked, Neal missed his evening meal in the dining hall. Since his current accommodations weren't the Ritz, or even Motel 6, he was just going to have to be hungry until tomorrow morning. It wasn't his first choice on how he wanted his evening to go, Neal admitted to himself, but he could certainly live with it.

He was back in GenPop in time for his allotted hour in the TV room, however. _Survivor _was on, holding the attention of most of the inmates in the room. The cacophony of shouted suggestions and catcalls at the contestants, and rude remarks on the female contestant's physical attributes, created the perfect cover for Neal to slip to the back of the room and join Desmond in his perpetual poker game.

Desmond looked up from his cards and nodded wordlessly to Neal. Rudy slid over two seats, giving the newcomer the seat directly across from Desmond. Neal smiled his thanks, sat, and dealt himself a hand of cards.

"I understand you caused a problem upstairs this morning," Desmond said, focused once again on his cards.

"I really didn't want to," Neal answered honestly, sorting his own cards, "but sometimes that's just how things have to go."

"Spent some time in the hole?"

"A little time for quiet reflection is just what I needed." Neal looked up and to his left where one of the guards was standing, listening to the conversation. Neal smiled cheerfully at the man, who immediately made it obvious how uninterested he was in whatever they were saying, and walked out of earshot.

"So, did you get done what you needed to?" Desmond asked softly as he flipped a few chips into the pot.

"Yes and no." Neal tossed a few chips of his own into the center of the table. "Raise you," he said.

The big man looked straight at Neal. "So, which is it?" he asked.

"Both. I got the cloner planted; I don't know how I'm going to get it back out." Neal threw his cards down in disgust. "I'm out," he announced. "There not going to let me back up there," he continued quietly.

Large hands swept the winnings across the table. "Poor planning on your part."

Neal raised a hand in acknowledgment.

"I can get it."

Neal and Desmond both turned to Zeus, sitting at the far end of the table. "I can get it," the young man repeated. Neal raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

"It's not like I never stole anything before," Zeus stated. "Did you think I was in here for the good food and the atmosphere?" Certain his sarcasm had been duly noted, he continued. "Since they have an open space, I can get myself sent up there. I haven't caused much trouble recently." He smiled up at his friend. "Not since Desmond set me straight."

"It might work," Neal said to himself. He looked over at the younger man, brimming with eagerness. That was me, he thought, not that long ago. I was going to show Peter how much I knew – how much I could do for him. I wanted to make him proud.

"You need to be careful," Neal cautioned him. "It could be dangerous. Mantino is playing for keeps."

Zeus smiled with a young man's bravado. "I'm not worried," he said firmly. "Besides, these guys have got to be stopped; they're hurting people."

Desmond clapped Zeus on the shoulder, his pride evident. "We'll settle things in the morning. Wanna play a hand?"

Neal stood up, giving his seat to the younger man. It was obvious this was the first time Zeus had been invited to play poker with his mentor, and his enthusiasm was overwhelming. Caffrey wandered towards the meager collection of books and magazines in the far corner of the room. He flipped through an old copy of _Sports Illustrated_ without actually reading a word, instead wondering what Peter was thinking.

Trying to shove those thoughts away, he found himself watching Zeus and Desmond, but seeing himself and Peter. Yup, he acknowledged painfully, all he'd wanted was for Peter to trust him. That hadn't worked so well, had it? Since he couldn't keep himself from planning that last, big score. He wondered if he'd ever get Peter's trust back.

ooOoo

"You know which terminal it is?" Neal asked Zeus.

"Yes."

"And you know what you're looking for?" Neal, Desmond, Zeus, and the ever-present Rudy sat at the table in the dining hall over the remains of breakfast. Zeus had eaten his powdered eggs with relish; Neal's food remained untouched, nerves having trumped hunger.

"Yes!" Zeus rolled his eyes. "You sound like my mother," he said with some exasperation.

Neal cringed inwardly at the reference to the kid's mother. He was so young and so sure of himself. If he screwed up he was looking at a world of hurt.

"I should do this," Neal said suddenly. Both Desmond and Zeus glared at him.

"Where are you working today?" Desmond asked him.

"The machine shop. But . . ." Desmond placed a large hand on Neal's chest, stopping him.

"Good, I can keep an eye on you, keep you from acting crazy. You know you can't go back up there." Desmond turned to Zeus. "You," he continued, "just get that friggin' thing and get out of there. No smart stuff; keep your head down." He planted a thick finger in the middle of the younger man's chest.

"Fine, fine!" Zeus raised both arms in the air in a gesture of surrender eerily reminiscent of Caffrey.

A loud horn sounded, echoing off the brick walls of the commissary. Slowly the inmates rose and shuffled to join the guards who would escort them to their various duties. Neal looked back once at Zeus, hoping this didn't all go to hell.

ooOoo

Zeus, who's real name was Conner, which he'd never liked, moved with the other inmates slowly up the stairs to the computer room. He tried to shuffle along like the rest of the group, but he was so eager to get in there and get his job done, it was all he could do to not run ahead of the group.

He'd been a screw-up his whole life, from truancy and detentions in grade school to shoplifting and joyrides in high school. His juvie records were sealed, but their very existence hadn't helped when he was sentenced for armed robbery and assault on his nineteenth birthday. His mother cried when he got 10 years. He would have kept messing up, joining one of the prison gangs, if it hadn't been for Desmond. Even though Desmond already had three strikes and was probably never getting out, the older man had shown him how to live a decent life. Now he only had three more years to serve, then he'd be out and he could live life like a man, not a con.

Zeus never thought he'd have a chance to prove himself before he got out, but here was the perfect chance. He'd help out Caffrey and stop the creeps who were stealing money and hurting other prisoners. Maybe Neal's FBI friends could help get him out early on parole.

Seated at his terminal halfway across the room from where he needed to be, Zeus realized he'd have to think of some reason to get over there. Stealing the small device shouldn't be hard, he was good at stealing stuff, he just needed an excuse to get to it.

Zeus raised his hand and half stood in front of his own terminal. One of the guards was next to him almost immediately.

"Sir," Zeus began meekly, "I'm sorry, sir, but I need to go to the head."

"What are you, a little baby?" the guard asked. "You just got here. Sit down and go back to work."

"I'm sorry, sir, but something I ate didn't agree with me." Zeus grimaced a little, leaning over to indicate pain. Caffrey'd be so proud of him!

"Jesus!" the guard said with disgust, looking over his shoulder. Mantino had come over to investigate. "Says he's gonna toss his cookies. I'm gonna get him out of here."

Mantino nodded, backing out of the way. Zeus staggered off with the guard holding onto his upper arm. As they neared the proper terminal, Zeus moaned aloud and stumbled, falling into the desk, grabbing the cloner on his way down to the floor. He lay on his side, clutching his stomach. God, he was good, he thought.

"What the – ?" Mantino hurried over to the guard and his charge. His eyes narrowed, taking in the fallen man and his location, right by the computer terminal Caffrey had been using yesterday. He took his nightstick from his belt.

"You're a friend of Caffrey's, aren't you?" he asked. Zeus moaned again, a twinge of real fear adding authenticity to the sound.

"Come on, boy, look at me when I'm talking to you." Mantino swung at Zeus's face, landing a hard crack to the young man's cheek. Zeus cried out in real pain, but kept the cloner clutched tightly in his hand. He wasn't going to be a screw-up again – never again.

"You got something in your hand, little boy?"

"Sir, no – " Zeus gasped. Mantino swung his club again, smashing down on the hand holding the cloner. Bones cracked audibly; Zeus screamed in agony.

"What have we got here?" Mantino asked calmly, picking the small device up from where it had flown. He looked at it curiously.

"You should pick your friends more carefully, kid," he said. "You never know what kind of trouble they're going to cause you." He raised the club and brought it down on Zeus' head, again and again, as chaos erupted in the room.

ooOoo

Working a stamp-press with an injured hand was a challenge, but then Neal Caffrey never shied away from a challenge, especially when it meant keeping the rest of his fingers intact. Also, if he screwed this up, he knew he'd have the guard on him in an instant. At least having to concentrate on his job kept him from thinking about the kid in the computer room.

Desmond worked the press next to him with his usual smooth efficiency. He might be working a tad slower than normal, but that was because he kept one eye on Caffrey the entire time. The man was wound so tight, Desmond expected him to implode at any moment, which wouldn't do them, or Zeus, any good.

The earsplitting sound of a klaxon erupting above them jolted everyone to a halt. The guards in the machine shop herded their charges deftly into lines as a voice sounded from loudspeakers throughout the prison.

"_The prison is on lockdown! All corrections personnel to their posts! All inmates are to be secured in their cells!"_

The instructions repeated over and over in a dreadful counterpoint to the sound of the klaxon. Guards manhandled the prisoners to their cells over their shouted questions and complaints.

Neal and Desmond's eyes met once as they were moved in different directions.

_Zeus!_

ooOoo

"All right everybody, let's break for lunch. Be back here in an hour." Peter Burke watched as his team stood to leave the conference room. "And please," he begged wearily, "someone have a brainstorm on who is ripping off these hospitals!" Several of the agents chuckled, one moaned, as they headed out the door. It seemed like they were never going to figure out this Medicare case.

Peter turned to the window. Autumn sunlight bathed the city in a golden glow. Peering at the plaza twenty stories below, he could see people eating their lunches, reading, visiting with friends. He touched his hand to the glass; it felt warm, like summer. He should call El, ask her to meet him for lunch. He knew perfect days like these were numbered.

"Here anything from the prison, boss?"

"No, not yet." Turning away from the window, Peter looked at Diana, standing in the doorway. "I'm guessing that's a good thing. If something had gone wrong, they would have called by now."

The two agents exchanged a pointed look. Actually, they weren't sure anyone would call them. Since they knew the warden and some of the guards were involved with the scam, they didn't know who they could trust.

"Mozzie said he was going back later today," Peter continued, "we should know something then."

"Well, he's here now." Diana pointed out the doorway. Mozzie stood just inside the glass doors leading to the elevators, looking around nervously. "Where does he get those outfits?" Diana asked with a smile as the two went down the stairs to meet the little man.

"I have no idea."

Mozzie advanced two more paces into the bullpen, then waited for the agents to join him. Today he wore a suit of crisp, cream colored linen, with a tie of a slightly darker shade. He held a leather briefcase in one hand.

"Suit. Lady Suit," he greeted the two agents. Neither one reacted to the monikers; they'd long since become accustomed to Mozzie's strange ways.

"Mozzie," Peter replied. Diana just nodded at him.

"Boss, I'm going to lunch," she said. "Christie's not on duty today and I understand it's really nice outside."

"Say hello to Dr. Lady Suit for me," Mozzie requested. Diana just rolled her eyes as she went to her desk to get her purse.

Peter gave Mozzie's attire an appraising look. "Matlock?' he guessed.

Mozzie didn't answer, merely raising his chin a little higher and giving a proud little smile.

Peter smiled back. "Have you been in contact with Neal?" he asked, his smile fading.

"I'm going there now. Have you heard anything?"

"No," Peter began, "I'm assuming that means everything -"

"Burke!" Hughes stood at the railing at the top of the stairs, pointing imperiously at his agent.

"I'll be back in a minute." Peter trotted up the stairs.

Hughes grasped Peter by the arm, leading him away from the railing to a quieter area.

"Peter, I just received a call from the Marshals. They've been called to the prison; there's been an incident." He didn't let go of Peter's arm.

"An incident? What kind of incident?"

"One of the inmates was killed."

"Neal?" Peter's pulse raced.

"No. But the time has come to pull Caffrey out. A guard was involved and it happened where they do the credit card processing."

"I'm on my way."

Peter stopped to grab his FBI windbreaker, then ran down the stairs. Jones and Diana stood waiting for him, Diana on her cellphone, Jones slipping into his own windbreaker.

Mozzie was already gone.

ooOoo

"What the hell did you do?" Haskly didn't bother to keep his voice down, or hide the fact that his hand was shaking as he poured himself another glass of bourbon. Was it his second glass, or his third? He really didn't give a damn.

"I did what I had to do to keep this whole thing from blowing up in our faces," Mantino replied calmly, tossing back his own bourbon. His hands were not shaking.

"Well, you did a great job!" The warden put his glass down on his desk with a thud. "You beat that kid to death! The Marshals are coming to investigate!" Haskly paced the length of the office and back, in stark contrast to Mantino, who remained calmly seated in his usual place.

"It was justified. It'll be fine."

"Two dozen people saw you strike him repeatedly, while he was already down and making no attempt to resist." Haskly looked sharply at the guard. "Oh, right, he couldn't resist. Because he was already unconscious!" He finished his whiskey, then poured himself another glass, spilling some of the amber liquid on his desk.

"It was justified," Mantino repeated. "I'm certain every single witness will testify to that." Mantino allowed himself a satisfied smile. "Besides, now we've got this." He held up the small cloner for the warden to see. "Now all we have to do is make this go away. And kill Caffrey."

Haskly shuddered. The man was crazy. He wondered how he'd missed that before; or had it just happened recently? Maybe he could still be reasoned with.

"That's not going to work," he explained. "Besides the Marshals, Burke is on his way here. He's coming to get his man." He looked across the room. "We're done," he said heavily.

"Maybe your done, but I'm not." Mantino rose from his chair. Even though he wasn't a particularly tall man, he seemed to tower over the warden. "Go ahead, give up," he said softly. "Lose your job, your wife and family. Hell, you can be an inmate instead of the warden." He smiled at the other man. "Of course, you won't last very long, with the mob after you and all. But I'm going to take my money and go. I am not going to let Caffrey screw me again. He's going to pay." Hatred flared coldly in his eyes. "And you aren't going to do anything to stop me. Understand?"

Haskly backed away, putting the desk between him and Mantino. Oh yes, the man was definitely crazy! He reached a shaky hand for his drink.

"So, what are you planning to do?" he asked carefully.

"I'm going to take this little toy down to the heating plant and incinerate it. Then, as soon as you rescind the lockdown, Caffrey's going to have a fatal accident. Probably in the machine shop. The little shit has already shown how clumsy he is." Mantino's smile was wide and manic.

"No!" Both men were surprised at how firm the warden's voice was. Mantino looked at him curiously.

"No," he repeated. "Burke's on his way here. We have to give him something."

"We are not giving him this." Mantino held up the cloner.

"I'm not saying he'll find anything usable on it, but it will look like we're acting in good faith."

"And Caffrey?" Mantino looked like he was about to have his favorite toy taken away from him.

"If Caffrey has an accident before Burke gets here, well accidents happen." Haskly kept his voice steady. "We can say we did everything we could to protect him. So don't beat him to death!" he warned.

Mantino just smiled in response.

"Now give that thing to me," the warden instructed, "and get the hell out of my office!"

Mantino placed the device on Haskly's desk, next to the bourbon. "So you do have balls," he laughed, walking to the door, "teeny, tiny ones." The door closed softly behind him as he left.

Haskly watched the closed door for a moment, then sank into his chair. He fingered the cloner before locking it in the top desk drawer. He didn't know if Burke would get here in time to save Caffrey; he wasn't sure if he cared. But he did know that if he was going down, that lunatic Mantino was going down with him. It might be the coward's way, but it was all he could do.

ooOoo

Neal sat on the bunk in his cell, his back up against the wall, knees drawn up against his chest. He'd been in that same position for hours, not moving, immune to the noises around him. Some time earlier, one of the prison staff had shoved a food tray into the cell through a slot in the bars. It remained where it had been set, untouched.

Zeus was dead, beaten to death by Mantino. He was just a kid, murdered while doing the job he should have been doing. He wasn't sure how he was going to live with that, but he was going to have to. He shut his eyes, willing the ugly thoughts away, but all he saw behind the closed lids was Zeus's eager face at breakfast that morning.

"Neal?"

Neal didn't move. He didn't even bother to open his eyes.

"Neal!" The tone of Bobby's voice said he wasn't going to be ignored. Neal opened his eyes and turned his head toward the guard.

"You gonna eat that?"

Neal shook his head and looked away again.

"Neal," Bobby said softly, "you didn't kill that boy."

"Yes, I did." His voice was barely audible.

"No, you didn't. Now get over here and hand me that tray. I really don't care if you want to starve yourself."

Neal's eyes opened wide as he looked over at the guard. Bobby stood right at the bars, hands on his hips. It was obvious he wasn't going to put up with anything. Neal stood, grabbing the tray awkwardly with his one injured hand, and moving to the cell door.

Bobby took the tray from him and set it aside. "You didn't kill that young man," he repeated, "Mantino did." He held up his hand, silencing the protests Neal had already begun. "But you, you're one of the few who can stop this shit before it goes any further. So what are we gonna do?"

"We?"

"Yeah, we. I know these guys aren't model citizens." He gestured broadly, including the whole cell block . "But they deserve better than this. So, what are we going to do?"

"Bobby, you could lose your job." Neal paused to think. "You could get hurt –they'll come after you." He turned away; he couldn't bear it if someone else got hurt because of him, especially Bobby.

Bobby laughed and Neal turned back. "They aren't going to hurt me. Look at me." He indicated his sizable frame with a smile. "If I lose my job, no big deal. I've got a girlfriend, she's got a good job, she can support me for a while. That'll give me a chance to kick back, watch my shows."

Neal looked at him, eyebrows raised, incredulity on his face.

"Gotcha!" Bobby laughed and Neal couldn't help but smile. "So, what are we gonna do?" he asked again.

Neal's smile faded as quickly as it appeared. "I need to talk to Desmond."

"Yeah," Bobby acknowledged, "he's hurting, too. But he wants to put an end to this, now more than ever. Once the lockdown is lifted, I'll make sure you can see him."

Bobby turned to pick up the tray.

"Bobby," Neal said quietly, "thanks."

The guard nodded, turning to leave. "Just get it done, Caffrey."

ooOoo

Neal prowled the edges of the exercise yard, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. He didn't know how many of his fellow inmates were aware of his connection to Zeus, and he really didn't want to find out now. There was already a healthy amount of dislike for his alleged connection to the FBI, people knowing the poor kid had been killed because of him would only add fuel to the fire.

Lockdown was lifted by mid-afternoon, and the prisoners were back to their normal schedules. However, the warden had added a number of extra guards to watch any place the inmates could gather in groups. In addition, there were a number of Marshals on site, investigating the incident. Both law enforcement and prison inmates were on edge.

Neal found Desmond and Rudy at the far end of the yard, behind the basketball courts. There was no poker game now, Desmond just sat, watching the game but not seeing it. Neal sat on the bench a short distance from him.

"Desmond, I'm sorry. If I - " Desmond held up his hand to stop him.

"I know," is all the big man said.

"I should have been the one – " Neal tried again, but once again Desmond stopped him before he could finish.

"It's done," he said. "Just leave it. You didn't kill Zeus, Mantino did."

"He was a good kid," Rudy said.

"Yes, he was," Desmond agreed.

They watched the basketball game in silence for a few minutes.

"So, how are we going to get him?" Desmond finally asked.

"We have to be able to prove that the warden and the guards are stealing," Neal said. "We need to get our hands on that cloner. Have you heard anything about it?"

"Nope."

"I heard Mantino had it," Rudy said. Both Desmond and Neal looked at the older man. "I talked to some people," he explained simply.

"He must have destroyed it," Neal said unhappily. "He may be homicidal, but he isn't stupid." Desmond nodded in agreement.

"One of the Honors guys said he took it to Haskly," Rudy said.

A stray basketball bounced over to the table. Desmond grabbed it and tossed it back into the game.

"I need to get into Haskly's office," Neal said, with an enthusiasm he hadn't expected to feel.

"Yeah? How're you going to do that?" Rudy looked up at the guards stationed around the yard. "The place is crawling with guards. Besides, you think he didn't destroy it?"

"There's a chance; we have to find out. For Zeus." Neal looked at Desmond. "I need a diversion," he said.

Rudy looked skeptically at him, but Desmond's face was alive with thought.

"We need a big diversion," Desmond agreed. "One that will get all the guards away to one spot." He gave Neal a calculating look. "How are you supposed to make contact with your Fed friends?" he asked.

Neal looked cautiously around to make sure no one was listening. "I can send a message through my lawyer."

"Good. That's good." Desmond actually smiled. "What we need is a hostage."

"Nope!" Neal objected. "No way Mozzie'll do that."

"Not the lawyer," Desmond continued slowly. "I was thinking of your girlfriend."

Neal growled something unintelligible as he jumped at Desmond. Rudy held him back while Desmond laughed.

"Calm down, Caffrey. I didn't say we were going to do anything to her." He placed a hand on Neal's shoulder, both to calm him and to hold him down. "Think about it, a pretty red-haired lady held hostage by a bunch of hardened lifers. All the television stations will be here; Haskly will have to be up front and center, negotiating. No one will be watching his office. It's perfect."

Neal wasn't convinced it was perfect, but he held his tongue.

"Think she'll do it?" Desmond asked seriously.

Neal thought about Sara, about what she was willing to do and why she would be willing to do it.

"Yeah," he sighed, "she'll do it."

ooOoo

When Peter Burke and his fellow agents pulled up to the front of the prison, he wasn't surprised to see several cars and a van marked with the insignia for the U.S. Marshals Service parked just inside the gate. He was surprised to see a vintage Lincoln Mark IV parked in the lot just outside the gate, with Mozzie leaning against the rear fender.

"Mozzie?" Peter asked as he walked from the SUV he was driving over to the little man.

"Suit. Here to storm the Bastille?" Mozzie asked, indicating Jones and Diana, following behind Peter, and the other three agents exiting another SUV.

"I'm here to get Neal out," he replied tightly. "Then I'm going to arrest Haskly and whoever else is responsible for this mess." Peter headed back towards the SUV, the breeze teasing up the edges of his FBI windbreaker, making it resemble a cape.

"That's a fine sentiment, Suit," Mozzie called after him, "but do you have enough evidence to hold him?"

Peter turned to face the smaller man, struck by the irony that Mozzie, _Mozzie!_, was asking if he had enough evidence.

"Do you know something?"

"I was able to talk to Neal."

"Is he okay?" Peter asked quickly.

"He's as well as can be expected, under the circumstances." Mozzie shot the agent an accusing look. "Needless to say, he's upset about the death of his fellow prisoner."

Peter nodded. Of course Neal was upset, just as Peter would be if someone died on his watch.

"And?" Peter prompted

"Neal got the information off the computer terminal," Mozzie continued, "but – "

"But what, Mozzie?"

"He doesn't have the cloner, Haskly does." Mozzie stepped back a pace, seeing the look which crossed Peter's face.

"So all we need to do is go in there, arrest the warden and search his office." Agent Wesley stepped up from behind Jones.

"We don't have enough evidence," Burke said, answering Mozzie's question from before.

"Neal has a plan."

"A plan?" Peter asked suspiciously.

"He's worked out a way to get into the warden's office and get the cloner."

"He's going to get himself killed!" Burke's patience was disappearing rapidly.

"He's confident it will work," Mozzie explained.

"Are you?"

Mozzie hesitated, but only for a second. "It should." He looked up at the agent. "Peter," he said earnestly, "Neal really needs to do this."

Burke understood, not that it made him happy. "What does he need from us?" he asked.

"Have you talked to Sara?"

"Sara?" Peter asked incredulously.

"You need to ask her to come up here," Mozzie explained. "And she should probably wear comfortable clothes."


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's apology: There is no excuse for how long it took me to update this; there's just life and laziness. So, please accept my apology. On the plus side, I'm good with hard deadlines, believe it or not. This story will be complete by the time season 4 premiers a week from tomorrow._

**Prisoners of Our Own Mistakes**

Chapter 7

Mozzie jumped out of the passenger side of the borrowed car as soon as Sara cut the engine. He looked like he was ready to bolt – he'd made it clear he was only doing this for Neal. She smiled sympathetically at him; she understood how he felt.

Sara ran a hand down the leg of her dark jeans, nervously removing an imaginary piece of lint. She wasn't scared of her part in the upcoming drama, not really, unsure might describe her feelings a little better. My God, she realized, as she and Mozzie stepped through the heavy door of the prison, life with Caffrey was never dull, was it?

She tossed the keys to Diana's car in her bag and handed it to the guard. Christie had given her the keys in the hospital parking garage earlier today, graciously willing to take public transportation home when she was through for the day. Mozzie had offered the doctor use of the Lincoln in trade, since Sara refused to drive it, but Christie had declined, hiding the look of horror on her face at the thought of driving the behemoth through midtown Manhattan.

An involuntary shiver ran down Sara's spine as she handed her bag to the guard. It wouldn't be returned to her until she was ready to leave. If they only knew, she thought wryly. If anyone had told her a year ago that she would agree to be a hostage at a maximum security prison, she would have laughed in their face. But here she was. Reminding herself that she was here to catch a thief and a murderer, she took a deep breath and followed Mozzie through the metal detector into the bowels of the supermax.

ooOoo

"Caffrey!" Desmond hissed in irritation as he watched the other man fiddle with the controls of the stamp-press he was working. So far today, Neal had managed to make more misshapen junk than nuts and washers.

Agitated blue eyes met sharp brown ones over the press. Neal pulled his hand away from the controls, much to Desmond's relief. "If you take a finger off, you aren't gonna be able to break into that office," he reminded Neal. He looked around to make sure no one was listening to them. "And if you keep making crap," the big man indicated the basket full of Neal's mistakes, "the guards are gonna pull you out of here and send you God knows where." Desmond smiled sympathetically at him. "Don't worry, I'll take good care of her."

Desmond didn't understand. How could he? Neal wasn't sure he understood his own feelings. A cold, hard fist clenched at his heart, making it difficult to breathe. If something went wrong, if something happened to her – . At the same time, he felt a warmth growing somewhere deep inside him. He was amazed at what she was willing to do for him, and for the other inmates.

"Caffrey? You okay?" Neal turned to meet Desmond's worried look. He flashed a grin and raised one hand in response. He'd better get his head in the game.

Neal had finally produced a successful string of washers when a guard came up behind him.

"Caffrey, your lawyer is here again." He indicated that Neal should walk in front of him. "This time he's got some fancy broad with him," the guard commented, obviously curious.

Neal just shrugged, schooling his features to express nothing more than mild interest, as the guard shepherded him toward the visitors areas. Desmond and Rudy watched him go, mentally preparing for their parts in the hostage crisis they were about to create.

"Hey! Hold up for a minute!" Bobby's voice called out from the empty corridor behind Neal and his escort. Neal noted they were about two-thirds of the way to the visitors area. So far, so good.

"There's some sort of commotion going on in the corridor outside the machine shop. Mantino asked for you to come back and help them out. I can take this one to his lawyer."

The guard smiled in anticipation and headed back the way the other way. Bobby nudged Neal forward.

"Good one, Bobby," Neal complimented him. "Mentioning Mantino's great."

"Let's just hope they get that commotion going before the guard gets there."

ooOoo

Sara sat quietly at the table with her eyes focused on the door of the small, secure attorney's room; Mozzie paced nervously back and forth in the enclosed space. They had gone over their parts a dozen times in the car on the way here, but there were so many other people involved, Sara thought it sounded more like organized chaos than a carefully thought out plan.

"Mozzie, will you please sit down?" Sara begged as the little man walked by.

"I'm supposed to be standing near the door," he reminded her.

She glared at him as he walked towards her. Again. "Then stand by the door, because if you walk by me one more time I'm going to break both your legs."

Mozzie gave her an appraising look. "You know, I really don't know what Neal sees in you," he commented. He did, however, stop to stand near the closed door. A rattle of keys in the lock indicated someone was coming in. It's show time, Sara thought.

Bobby stuck his head into the room, checking to see if Sara and Mozzie were in position. Satisfied, he shoved Neal inside the room. Standing in the open doorway, he listened for a moment. When he could detect shouting voices and assorted bangs and crashes, he smiled.

"Okay, everyone ready?" he asked in a low voice. Sara and Mozzie both nodded affirmation. Neal reached out suddenly and grabbed Sara's wrist.

"You're okay with this?" he asked urgently.

"Now's a great time to ask," she pointed out, tipping her head in the direction of the approaching altercation. She squeezed his hand gently as she removed it from her arm. "I'm fine. I trust you." Neal looked at her carefully, his own emotions swirling in stark contrast to her calm face, before he nodded and stepped into position.

ooOoo

Warden Haskly and Peter Burke greeted one another with smiles that neither one meant. Agent Jones received only a curt nod from the warden, which pleased Jones just fine. In his mind, an honest criminal like Caffrey or the little guy was easier to deal with than a someone who used the law for illegal activities. Whoa, he thought, where did that come from?

The warden seated himself behind his desk and looked calmly at the two FBI agents. If he was uncomfortable with this visit, he gave no sign of it. He smiled confidently at them.

"Gentleman, please, make yourselves comfortable."

Peter sat in the visitor's seat across the desk from Haskly; Jones remained standing behind his boss. The warden showed no signs of being intimidated.

"I understand you're here to pull Caffrey out, that's probably for the best." The warden's smile was sympathetic. "I'm sorry things didn't work out the way we'd hoped. We've done our best to watch out for your man, but it's been difficult." Jones made a disbelieving noise he quickly covered with a cough. Haskly's eyes held the agent's for just a moment before he continued. "His ongoing work with the FBI is well known among the inmates. It's never easy for a snitch."

"I'm sure you and your men have done your best, warden." Burke offered another insincere smile.

Reaching for his phone, Haskly's smile was equally forced. "Let me call down and have a guard bring him up here," he offered.

Peter's eyes glanced quickly at the clock on the wall behind the warden's desk. Neal needed more time.

"Warden Haskly," he began, "do you know if Caffrey had any luck uncovering any of the illegal credit card transactions? I'm aware he spent some time on that work detail." He smiled disarmingly at the warden.

Haskly broke eye contact with Burke. For the smallest fraction of a second his eyes lowered to the locked desk drawer. There it is, Peter thought triumphantly, Haskly's tell! The device was locked in that drawer; all they had to do was give Neal enough time to get in here and get it.

"I'm sorry, Agent Burke," Haskly said, not looking the least bit sorry. "I don't believe Caffrey was able to find any evidence of illegal activity." His eyes flicked toward the drawer again. "I don't believe there's been any." He smiled blandly at the two FBI agents. "You really can't expect information coming from prisoners to be anything other than self-serving. I work with them every day, they're criminals, they lie."

Jones made a noise, low in his throat, that he didn't even try to hide. Talk about liars! The warden looked up nervously at him, then reached for his phone once again.

"Let me just call –" he began. The phone rang, startling him. "Yes?" he said into the receiver. "What?" A look of real shock spread across his features. "What?" he asked again. "I want confirmation of this immediately!"

Peter looked at the clock again. _Now! _he thought.

All three men were standing when the office door burst open and a guard rushed in. It was Bobby.

"Sir!" he began breathlessly. "There was an incident in the machine shop. Some of the prisoners are out of control. Sir," he said with a credible look of horror on his face, "they've taken one of the visitors hostage."

ooOoo

The inmate who grabbed Sara from behind and pulled her out of the meeting room was huge – and strong, really strong. He had one arm around her waist and the other at her throat holding a shiv against the artery pulsing there. Shit! She was supposed to be a phony hostage, didn't this giant know that? Only after a panicky minute did she realize did she realize that whatever was in the man's hand had no point. She should have remembered that anything Caffrey planned would be perfect down to the last detail.

Neal used the chaos in the hallway to slip away. The majority of the guards were focused on Sara and the men holding her captive. One guard was wrestling Mozzie towards the entrance and safety. Mozzie was fighting and yelling, doing his best to cause the biggest distraction possible. Just for an instant, Neal was able to make eye-contact with Sara. The sight of her with a shiv at her throat set his pulse racing. Sara flashed him the briefest of smiles and angled her head ever so slightly, just enough for him to see the shiv was a fake. Relieved, he slipped unnoticed through the the tangled mass of orange jumpsuits and into an empty corridor.

ooOoo

"Burke! You and Agent Jones need to get back to the entrance and off of the prison grounds." Haskly's voice was crisp and authoritative now, reminding Peter that whatever his personal failings, he was still warden here.

"What about Neal?"

"Caffrey's whereabouts is secondary right now, Agent Burke. I'd like to stop this thing before it becomes a full-blown riot." The warden was reaching for the phone when another guard appeared in the office doorway, this one was dressed in riot gear. Haskly looked startled at the sight of him.

"How bad is the situation, Lopez?" he asked the newcomer. The noise audible through the open doorway didn't sound good.

"Something happened with Mantino and some of the inmates working in the machine shop," Lopez explained. "I didn't hear exactly what. All I know is a group of prisoners left the shop without supervision and ended up near the visitors area." He paused for breath. "They have a woman as hostage. I understand she came in with Caffrey's lawyer. When this kind of thing starts, it just escalates," Lopez finished unhappily.

So far, so good, Peter thought.

"Caffrey!" The name exploded from Haskly. He turned to Bobby. "Get these men out of here now, Kingston!" he ordered, then picked up the phone.

"This way. Now," Bobby ordered. Peter and Jones left as Haskly ordered the prison on lockdown for the second time that week. The sound of the klaxon bounced eerily off the walls as Bobby moved them to the exit.

"How bad is it?" Jones asked. The noise from further inside the prison seemed to be amplifying.

"It's gotten a little out of hand," Bobby admitted.

"What about – ?" Peter began.

"Your people?" Bobby finished for him. "The little lawyer is out safe; Desmond will make sure the lady isn't in any danger." They'd reached the exit, where other guards waited to escort them off the grounds. "I'll look out for Neal," he said quietly.

"Thanks," was the equally quiet response. "If you get a chance, tell him it's in the top desk drawer."

The noise from inside seemed to be increasing yet again. "I'll do what I can," Bobby promised.

ooOoo

Neal moved easily through the disorderly groups of prisoners and guards. He was just one more body in orange; if he wasn't doing anything perceived as a threat he was ignored. Which was just the way he wanted it. He flattened himself against the wall in a recessed doorway when Warden Haskly, guarded by four riot-clad guards strode by, heading for the location Sara was being held hostage.

Sara. He tried to push all thoughts of her out of his mind. That was one distraction he didn't need right now. He couldn't say she'd looked comfortable with her current status as hostage, but she hadn't looked threatened, or even frightened. She was one tough woman, he reminded himself. He stepped back into the corridor with a fleeting smile on his face.

He arrived at the stairs that would take him up to the warden's office unhindered. The sound of heavy, booted footsteps sent him scurrying behind and underneath the staircase; only when he recognized their owner did he come forward.

"Bobby!" he called out softly. The big man stopped and turned.

"You good?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah." Neal's face telegraphed his unasked question.

"Your two agent friends are out," Bobby answered. "Haskly's on his way to deal with the hostage," he continued, "and there're are a bunch of those TV vans outside. It looks like some of the prisoners are taking advantage of the situation."

Neal's head turned toward the riot noises coming from down the corridor. "Yeah, I could hear that," he said.

"Hey, Desmond keeps his word, the lady will be fine," Bobby assured him. "Oh, and Matlock is out safe," he added as an afterthought.

It took Neal a second to work that out. "Oh, Mozzie," he smiled.

Bobby shrugged and smiled. Both men turned their heads at the sound of shouts and a loud bang. The guards must be using smoke grenades. Bobby's smile faded.

"You watch out for yourself," Bobby warned. "Not everyone's on your side – you remember that." With a sigh, the guard turned toward the source of the explosion. "Wait!" he called, "I almost forgot. Your agent buddy said to check the desk." Neal nodded once as Bobby turned and left.

Running his hand along the railing, he started up to the administrative offices. Happily, he felt the package hidden just as he got to the top of the stairs. The lock-picks were right where they were supposed to be. Looking at the small package in his hand he realized they were the good, government issue ones.

"Good going, Jones!" Neal said to himself.

ooOoo

Rudy and half-a-dozen other inmates were busy stacking pieces of furniture against the workshop door, hopefully barring the entry of the half-a-dozen guards on the other side of the door who were trying to get in. They certainly had a lot of furniture to choose from; the room they had taken refuge in was used for the construction of office furniture that would be sold in office supply outlets across the country.

"Hey!" Desmond called out from his place alongside Sara Ellis, "someone get those cameras undone!"

Sara certainly hoped they'd be quick about it; she had to remain bound until they were sure no one could see inside this room.

"Got it, Desmond!"

Sara flinched a little as he used a box cutter to free her hands and feet. "I'll let you get the tape off your mouth by yourself," he offered. Sara shut her eyes, took a deep breath and pulled at the loose corner of the duct tape.

"Ow!" she gasped involuntarily. She rubbed at her mouth and cheeks. She knew they'd put the tape on loosely, she felt sorry for people who were really bound and gagged.

"Sorry about that," Desmond said, offering her a smile. "Had to do that because of the cameras."

Sara rubbed at her wrists, restoring circulation, then reached down for her ankles, doing the same thing. "I know." She looked carefully around the room, filled with large cartons and half-finished desks, chairs, and cabinets. "Is it okay if I walk around a little?" she asked.

"You're not a prisoner," Desmond reminded her tartly.

"I know," she answered. "I just wanted to make sure there weren't anymore cameras I needed to avoid."

Desmond's eyes searched along the upper edges of the walls to make certain there weren't any security cams he'd missed, then he gave a booming laugh. "Caffrey said you were a smart one. Go ahead, it looks clear."

Sara stood and stretched, wincing as her muscles and tendons loosened. She made a few short strides around her chair, taking in her surroundings – and her captors. There were an awful lot of orange-clad men in this room, she thought. They were loud and they were physical, yelling and pushing and swinging at one another. It was like a group of adolescent boys just out of school for the summer, trying to out-testosterone each other. She decided she would stay close to Desmond; the big man exuded calm reasonableness.

"You don't need to be scared," he reassured her. "We all know why you're here." He waved a hand broadly around the room, indicating his fellow inmates. "Everyone here wants Caffrey to get that little doodad so we can be done with Haskly, Mantino, and this whole thing."

Sara looked up and over Desmond's shoulder. Two of the men were in the midst a heated debate, the shoving and profanity escalating as the argument continued.

"It's not like everyone is here because they believe in truth and justice," Sara pointed out, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

"Well, that's the truth," Desmond answered seriously, "but we don't think it's right that the men who are supposed to be rehabilitating us" he drew out the word for emphasis, "are lying and cheating and murdering people. That don't make them any better than us." He carefully searched her face. Apparently he liked what he saw. "In fact, I think that makes them worse than us," he finished.

Sara sighed; she couldn't help but agree. "You're right," she conceded, "but all this?" She indicated the blockaded door and the restive inmates who were her supposed captors.

"Caffrey needed a diversion, and this is something everyone understands – the warden, his screws," Sara winced at the prison parlance, " the inmates, the TV stations. You do what works."

"You're Neal's friend?" Sara couldn't think of two more different people. "What are you in for? I don't think it's art theft."

Again the booming laugh echoed through the large room. "I'm in here for life," Desmond said bluntly. "I did some bad things and I'm paying for them," he continued, trying to allay Sara's fears. "But I've learned you can live a good life, even in this place. Caffrey may have helped me understand that; he's a good guy."

Sara laughed a little, then gave a start at a particularly loud crash on the door. It was followed by the voice of the warden, demanding they release their captive and their immediate surrender. "I hope he's okay," she said softly.

Desmond rose with a sigh. "I gotta deal with this," he explained, indicating the repeated banging on the barricaded door. "You should probably stay to the back. I think things have gotten a little out of control." Sara thought that was an understatement, even as she retreated back to her chair.

Desmond reached out and caught her wrist in his big hand. "I'm sure he's fine; Neal's a slippery kind of guy."

"From your mouth to God's ear," Sara said fervently.

ooOoo

Neal cursed silently. He quickly reached down and scooped up the pick he'd dropped from his injured right hand. It was much harder to do this opposite of the way he was used to, he was quickly discovering. He obviously needed to practice more; he'd borrow Moz's practice locks as soon as he got home. Checking to make sure he wasn't seen, he bent to work on the door to Warden Haskly's office. He sighed with relief when he felt the faint click of the lock opening. It was a standard lock, not hard to pick under normal circumstances; he'd have to tell Peter to recommend an upgrade to the Department of irony of this thought wasn't lost on Neal as he slid silently into the warden's office.

ooOoo

"So,did you steal it?" Peter asked.

Mozzie started, looking around anxiously before he answered. "Steal what?" he replied. The number of things he had stolen in his life was, well, large. It didn't matter what the agent was referring to, he'd deny it anyway.

"The Lincoln."

"Suit, I have many resources you know nothing about," the little man continued smugly.

"I know, that's why I asked." Peter had really tried to not ask the question, he had, but the combination of inactivity and lack of control of the current situation were wearing him down. Baiting Mozzie gave him something to do. "Did you steal it?"

" 'Thieves respect property. They merely wish the property to become their property in order to more perfectly respect it.' " Mozzie looked Peter square in the eyes.

"Fine. G.K. Chesterton. You didn't answer my question."

"No, I didn't."

The discussion broke off, interrupted by the sound of an explosion from the prison, followed by a narrow plume of smoke.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Mozzie said seriously, watching a SWAT van careen through the prison gates.

"I knew this was a bad idea!" Peter ran his hand across his chin in frustration. "I never should have listened to you!" He glared angrily at the smaller man. "And now Sara's in there, too! You said she'd be safe."

"I'm sure she is." Mozzie was mostly sure she was. "Neal vouched for Desmond – and the guard, Bobby, did, too." He met Peter's glare straight on. "There is honor among thieves, Suit."

"Not everyone is you and Neal, Mozzie." A heavy silence fell between them.

"Peter!" Both men turned, glad for the interruption, as Jones came trotting up. "I was talking to one of the Marshals," he gestured toward the Marshal's command post. "He says the explosion was in the laundry area; the hostage is being held in a room on the other side of the prison." All three men were obviously relieved at this piece of information. "Warden Haskly and a negotiator are just outside where she's being held. If they don't make any headway, they're prepared to storm the room." This bit of intelligence was less welcome.

"And risk Sa – ? And risk the hostage?" Peter corrected himself.

"According to my source, they are making 'slow progress,'" Jones continued.

"I hope this prisoner," Peter began.

"Desmond," Mozzie supplied.

"I hope Desmond knows what he's doing," Peter wished fervently.

No one would disagree with that.

ooOoo

Leaning against the closed door of Warden Haskly's office, Neal shut his eyes, taking the moment to collect his thoughts. A smile played across his lips; it was nice when things worked out the way you planned them. The shrill sound of a siren and the pound of booted feet running through a corridor, not too far away, vanquished the smile as quickly as it had appeared. Perhaps things weren't going exactly as he and Desmond had planned them.

He didn't envy Desmond right now. He knew the man would do everything in his power to protect Sara, and give Neal the hour they had agreed on to retrieve the drive, but it was a delicate line the man was treading. If something went wrong, Desmond could end up in the hole, or injured. Or dead. Neal mentally shook himself and opened his eyes, ready to take on the task at hand.

It only took seconds to open the desk drawer and retrieve the cloner. This was too easy. Neal wondered if Haskly didn't care if it was located. He knew there was enough evidence on the little device for Peter to get a search warrant, but what if it wasn't enough to incriminate the warden and the guards involved with the scheme? After everything he, Desmond, Sara – hell, even Peter and Mozzie – had been through, Neal needed it to be a clean take-down. Zeus's eager young face haunted him.

There had to be files, some sort of record – either electronic or paper – tracking how much money Haskly and his chums were making. Neal looked around the tidy office. Which should he try first, the computer on the warden's desk or the locked cabinet behind it? As long as he was sitting right there – .

A few, quick taps brought the laptop to life. The man was warden of a supermax prison, Neal thought in disbelief, but he seemed to have no grasp of security. He didn't even turn off his machine before he left the office! The information on the computer was arranged in an orderly fashion, with icons for email, personnel, budget, and access to prisoner's files. Neal resisted the urge to snoop through his own file, searching instead through the budget information and the emails.

Nothing! There was nothing! Well, that explained why the warden wasn't worried about access to his computer, Neal thought sourly. His eyes shifted to the locked cabinet, the next obvious place to look. Unable to locate a key in Haskly's desk drawer, Neal resigned himself to picking this lock, too. A series of loud crashes from the hallway encouraged him to hurry. He slipped the cloner under the bandages on his hand – it would be nice if the jumpsuits had pockets – and reached for the lock-picks.

ooOoo

"Francone! Let her go." Warden Haskly's voice sounded calm and sure coming through the closed door. "Your record's been clean here for years; why blow it now?"

Desmond shut his eyes in pain, breathing in the stale air of the crowded workroom. All his privileges, all his hard work, were shot after this stunt. All because Haskly and his guards couldn't keep there own hands out of the till. And because Mantino was a monster. He sighed – a man did what had to be done.

"Desmond." This voice was more patient, almost conciliatory; this was the negotiator, Desmond realized. "What do you need in order to let the woman go?"

Desmond turned to look at the clock on the far wall. What he needed was another twenty minutes for Caffrey to get clear.

"I need you to arrest Mantino for murder!" he called back.

"Not going to happen, Francone," Haskly answered.

"Then I guess this nice lady is going to pay," Desmond threatened. He glanced back at Sara, seated among the boxes. She rolled her eyes in mock terror. Desmond grinned back.

"Desmond, I know you. I know you're not going to hurt that woman." Haskly stated with certainty. "Especially since she's tight with your friend Caffrey."

Shit, Desmond thought. He'd hoped they didn't know that.

"Where is Caffrey?" Haskly asked. "He's off doing God knows what, isn't he? I sent Mantino out to look for him."

Double shit! Desmond's heart raced. What the hell was he going to do now? He knew an encounter between Neal and Mantino wouldn't end well. Not for Neal.

Sara's piercing shriek caused him to spin in his tracks. "What the – ?" he hissed.

She gestured desperately at him. "Work with me here," she mouthed. Knocking a set of empty boxes over, she shrieked again. Desmond gave a her a sharp nod and returned to the door.

"What the hell was that?" Haskly called.

"Don't do anything stupid, Desmond," the negotiator warned.

"Haskly!" Desmond answered, "Call off your dog! Anything happens to Caffrey and the lady pays."

"You don't mean that, Francone," the warden countered.

"NO! Don't hur...!" Sara cut off her plea mid-scream.

Haskly swore under his breath. Too many people had already been hurt on account of his greed. He didn't _think_ Desmond would carry through on his threat, but he couldn't risk it.

"Okay," he responded. "Leave her alone, I'll call Mantino back."

Ear close to the door, Desmond could hear Haskly toggle on the radio, calling for Mantino. Desmond heaved a sigh of relief and signaled their success to Sara. She smiled weakly in response.

ooOoo

Neal's fingers flew through the contents of the formerly-locked cabinet. It was quite an eclectic collection. The bourbon was a decent brand, straight and well-aged. He limited his consumption to a few sips poured into the glass he found next to the bottle; being sober was important now. Most of the contents of this drawer, besides the bourbon, were forms from the government – he never ceased to be amazed at the vastness of the paper bureaucracy. Fortunately it wasn't his tax dollars funding this avalanche; one advantage of being a felon.

Searching through the files yielded nothing. Well, almost nothing. Neal spent a few minutes going through a neat bundle of Haskly's Visa bills. Mrs. Haskly was a frequent guest of Bloomingdale's. Those bills, on top of his gambling debts – . Poor guy! He grabbed the pages as evidence. Seconds later they were back in the drawer. Peter could get that information easily enough and Neal could only carry so much.

Just as he was shoving the bourbon back in the drawer, Neal noticed an edge of black binding wedged under the hanging files. Carefully maneuvering the files out of the away, he pulled out a narrow account book. His smile flashed brightly in the institutional gloom of the warden's office. What was it with these guys, always keeping a record of their criminal activites on paper? Quickly flipping through the pages, Neal assured himself this was the information he needed. He slipped the book down the front of his jumpsuit, closed the drawer, and quickly relocked it.

A loud commotion just outside the office door sent Neal scrambling for cover behind the visitors chair. When he realized the voices belonged to a group of prisoners, he stood up again. A quick glance at the clock told him it was time to get out of here; he told Desmond he needed an hour – and the hour was up.

ooOoo

"Hey! Desmond! Why ain't you askin' for extra privileges?"

"Yeah! Or maybe a way out of this place? We got a hostage; they should let us out."

"You just worried about the woman Desmond? And that snitch Caffrey. We're not likin' how this negotiation is going!"

Yeah, that was pretty obvious, Desmond thought unhappily. He wasn't surprised; he knew he could only keep a lid on this thing for so long. His co-conspirators were criminals, after all. They wanted Mantino gone, but very few of them were doing this solely for the greater good – they wanted something in return.

But, so was he a criminal. And he was going to pay dearly because of it. When he opened that door and let Sara Ellis go, he was going to catch hell. But –. Again with the buts, he thought wryly, but if Caffrey could stop the warden – and especially if he could stop Mantino – the punishment would be worth it.

Bang!

Desmond quickly turned towards the noise. The metal chair Sara had been sitting in screeched as it skidded, overturned, along the cement floor of the workroom. It sounded like an enraged animal, which closely matched the look on Sara's face as her eyes met those of the inmate reaching for her arm.

"What the f – ?" Desmond clamped his mouth tightly shut over the obscenity as he crossed the room with quick strides. "What are you doing?" he asked in an angry hiss. He grabbed the back of the man's jumpsuit, hauling him away from Sara and shoving him into a stack of packing cartons.

"We can use her, Desmond!"

"I told you the lady was off-limits!" he continued in the same low, angry voice. His big hand was in the middle of the other man's chest, holding him back. He looked over at Rudy, who was holding Sara back by the arm. She was breathing heavily, and the look on her face resembled that of one of the more ill-tempered Greek Furies.

"You okay?" Desmond asked her. Sara nodded in reply, shoving her disheveled hair back away from her face. She hoped he couldn't see her hand shaking.

"Desmond," the inmate implored, "we gotta use her to get something out of this. Or we ain't gonna get out of her at all." The men surrounding them rumbled their assent. The man started to move back towards Sara, but with very little success. Desmond's arm was rock-solid against him.

"Francone! Desmond!" Loud pounding sounded on the blockaded door; Desmond whipped his head back in that direction.

"What's going on in there Francone?" Haskly demanded

"Don't do anything you'll regret, Desmond," the negotiator reasoned.

Desmond realized he wasn't going to be able to keep up this act much longer. Between the warden and his restive roommates, he had to do something. He looked up at the clock and did a quick mental calculation. Caffrey's hour was up; he really hoped he got what he needed.

"Haskly!" Desmond called back, "is Manitino out there?"

"Yes!" the warden replied tersely.

"Let me hear him!"

"I'm right here, Francone! Just wait til we're alone!"

"Bring it on, little man!" Desmond called back venemously. "Let's see what happens when you face a righteous man!"

"He's here, Francone," the warden repeated. "I did what you asked. Open the door and let the woman out."

Rudy reached out and caught Desmond's arm as he moved the first box away from the door. "Desmond, you can't just open the door. They're gonna kill you."

"I doubt it," he replied. "Well I hope not, anyway. Help me move this desk," Rudy just looked at him.

"Desmond, let me see what I can do to help you." Sara's hand looked small on Desmond's thick arm.

Pausing as he reached for a chair serving as part of the barricade he asked, "You gonna have me shot when I open the door, Haskly?"

"Desmond, no one is going to shoot you," the negotiator reassured him.

"I wanna hear it from the warden."

"I'm not going to shoot you," Haskly called out.

"And Mantino?"

"He won't hurt you either."

Desmond pulled away the rest of the barricade and unlocked the door. Armored guards swarmed in.

ooOoo

"Agent Burke?"

One of the Marshals called over to the small group of people standing with Peter. Diana stepped back, turning to face the approaching man. Blake stepped back a little, but not so far he couldn't hear what was going on.

"I'm Burke," Peter answered. Mozzie slipped unobtrusively into the group of agents.

"The inmates have surrendered their hostage. She should be coming out shortly. You mind taking her back to the city with you? We're going to be here a while, mopping up and talking to the people who started this." The fierce look on the man's face didn't bode well for Desmond.

"Suit," Mozzie began softly. Peter inclined his head very slightly, asking Mozzie to wait.

"We won't be leaving right away ourselves, Marshal," Peter explained. "We have a man undercover we need to extract first."

"Oh." The young marshal was surprised to hear this.

"I understand," Peter continued, "that with all the chaos this afternoon, you might not have been aware of this," The look on Peter's face reflected exactly what he thought of the this oversight on the Marshal's part. "But rest assured, that is our only goal right now."

"Uh, right," the younger agent said uncomfortably. "Let me talk to Marshal – ." He stopped mid-sentence, noticing a commotion by the prison exit. "The hostage is out," he said.

Sara Ellis was escorted by two Marshals and a prison guard, Bobby again. She looked a little less than her normal, fashionable self, but otherwise unharmed. Peter was relieved to see this, even though he had trusted Neal's friend. Well, mostly trusted him. Peter and Diana hurried over to meet her.

"Are you okay?" Diana asked.

"Yeah," Sara answered, "I'm good." She gave a half-smile. "It was an interesting experience, though."

Diana smiled back. "I'll bet," she said.

Peter turned to Bobby, who was standing a little to one side. "Did Neal get the information?" he asked the guard. "Where is he?"

The uncomfortable look on Bobby's face spoke volumes. "I went by the warden's office on my way to get Ms. Ellis," he explained. "The door was unlocked and the office was empty. I guess that means Neal got what he needed."

"Where's Neal?" Peter repeated.

"I kinda lost track of him," Bobby admitted. "I don't know where he is."


	8. Chapter 8

Prisoner's of Our Own Mistakes

Chapter 8

Neal was running. He tucked his injured right hand close to his ribs, protecting it from further injury and keeping Warden Haskly's account book from sliding out of his jumpsuit.

Damn! This was not the exit strategy he'd planned. He was supposed to meet up with Bobby at the junction of two rarely used service corridors so the guard could escort him back to his cell and take possession of cloner. Instead, he was galloping along the main corridor, swept along by a group of out-of-control inmates who seemed determined to destroy everything in their path.

Something flew past him and a spray of broken glass showered Neal with glittery powder. He ducked into a recessed doorway and shook is head, trying get the worst of the glass shards out of his hair. Boy, when that unbreakable glass broke, it sure made a mess! He watched a group of men raid the prison commissary, knocking down shelves and rummaging through cabinets, stealing everything from candy bars to toilet paper. He waited for the mayhem to reach its peak, looking for an opening that would let him slip away in the other direction.

"Hey! Aren't you in on this?" A solid, orange-clad figure flung himself into Neal's doorway, clutching a handful of candy bars, a six-pack of sodas and a toothbrush. Neal backed farther into the corner, trying to avoid being crushed by the larger man. He wondered wildly if the toothbrush was on purpose or just a fortuitous accident. The man had liberated enough sugary products to rot his teeth out.

"No, I'm good," Neal said, holding up his good hand, hoping he looked innocuous.

"Yeah, well you better get what you can while you can," the inmate explained. "Desmond let the bitch go and they have him in custody. They're gonna come after us with everything now."

Neal smiled in easy camaraderie. "Thanks for letting me know. I think I'll get what I can from the infirmary."

"Nah, not there," the man warned. "They got a shitload of guards stationed there." His eyes narrowed as he looked at Neal carefully. "Hey, you're the Fibbee snitch, aren't you?" he asked. He leaned in over Neal, placing his hands on the wall on either side of Neal's head.

"Nope. You got the wrong guy. He's taller." Neal explained as he ducked under the larger man's arm and sprinted down the hallway, desperately hoping that wit and charm could outrun brute strength.

ooOoo

Bobby lumbered back into the prison, the heavy riot gear as much of a hindrance as it was protection. He groaned inwardly; their simple little plan had turned into one major screw-up. The little diversion had turned into a prison riot – that hadn't been in the plan. And he'd lost Neal. That definitely wasn't a good thing. He thought about the look Agent Burke had given him when he admitted his blunder. It was a weird combination of vitriol, anxiety – and guilt. He understood the anger and the concern, but what did Burke have to feel guilty about? He'd have to ask Neal – when he found him.

His radio crackled with orders, calls for assistance, and updates. Ms. Ellis was safely out now, Bobby reasoned, he'd do what he could to get the prisoners back where they belonged – and hopefully find Neal in the process.

ooOoo

"Yes, Sara's fine. Mozzie, too," Peter said into his phone. He wasn't surprised Elizabeth called; the media had been there all afternoon reporting on the disturbance. He stood a little distance from his fellow agents, leaning against one of the SUV's, squinting into the late afternoon sun. The sky was hazy, the air heavy and still; the atmosphere felt charged – very much like the atmosphere inside the prison.

"No, we haven't got Neal out yet," he said a moment later. Apparently he couldn't hide his concern from his wife. "I know, I'm sure he's fine too. As soon as we have him I'll let you know." A beep in his ear indicated he had another call. He glanced at the screen.

"Look, hon, Hughes is calling. I have to go. Yeah, I'll let you know. Love you." Peter switched to his boss.

"Burke here." He stood up straight as he talked to Hughes, his voice taking on its professional demeanor.

"No, sir, they still haven't located Caffrey." Peter doubted anyone other than the guard, Bobby, was even looking for him.

"Yes, Ms. Ellis is out safely." His eyes moved to Sara, standing with Diana and Mozzie. An errant puff of wind blew a strand of her disheveled hair into her face; she shoved it behind her ear with one finger, her eyes never leaving the prison gate. Peter's eyes followed hers, unconciously noting the wall of dark clouds building on the horizon beyond the prison.

"No, I have no idea what she was doing here. She was already here when we arrived," Peter lied blithely. He wondered if his nose was growing like Pinocchio's.

"Yes, I'll let you know as soon as we find out anything else." He watched as Jones, who had become the unofficial liaison between the FBI and the Marshals, walked towards them. "Sir, I have to go, it looks like there may be some news. I'll get back to you shortly." A flick of his finger ended the call.

"Jones?" Peter's quick strides covered the distance back to the other agents.

"According to my new friend with the Marshals," Jones inclined his head, indicating the young man they'd talked to earlier, "they have the prisoners who started all this in custody. Their leader, Desmond Francone, is being questioned now. He'll be placed in solitary until a decision is made on what to do with him."

"They're going to give him the chair!" Mozzie exclaimed excitedly.

"Are you crazy?" Diana asked, looking at the little man with disbelief.

Mozzie shifted his feet. "Well they're going to do something bad to him," he insisted. "He's in this mess because he was helping you, suits."

"Peter, I told Desmond we'd help him," Sara said. "He did everything he could to keep me safe and give Neal the time he needed." Sara's entreaty was calm and rational; added to Mozzie's plea, well, it just made him feel worse.

"I'll do everything I can for him," Peter promised, "but first we have to find Neal and get him out of there." He looked over at Jones. "Does your marshal buddy know where Haskly is?"

"I can find out," he replied, turning back to the Marshal's command post.

"I think it's time we put some pressure on the warden," Peter said.

ooOoo

Warden Haskly strode confidently down the hallway with the head of the Marshal's unit. It looked like the worst of the crisis was over. The hostage was released unharmed and the men responsible were in custody. They'd pay for what they'd done. He felt good; he'd handled the crisis.

As the two men started up the stairs to the warden's office, Haskly caught a glimpse of Mantino, heading the opposite direction with a group of other guards. His eyes traveled from Mantino's cold, dark eyes to the nightstick clasped tightly in the guard's hand. Mantino smiled and nodded as the two men made eye contact; the greeting just as cold as his eyes. Warden Haskly stumbled on the stairs, grasping the railing to keep himself from falling.

ooOoo

The hallway was cool and quiet. Neal leaned back against the wall to catch his breath. Amazingly, he was alone. He stood in the blind spot of one of the ever-present security cameras. Well, actually, it was a blind spot only after Neal had shifted the camera's angle just the tiniest of degrees.

The sounds of the melee were lessening, he thought. The guards and the marshals must be getting things under control. He wasn't sure if this was good news or bad news. As relieved as he was to know Sara was safe, Desmond's fate was another matter entirely. The man had risked so much in the name of justice; he hoped Peter could help Desmond get the justice he deserved.

Booted footsteps sent Neal scurrying for a place to hide. Three prison guards marched past the small broom cupboard Neal had folded himself into. He saw immediately that they weren't hunting down errant inmates. Instead they were taking off their bulky riot gear and bragging about how many prisoners they had captured and how many fights they had broken up. Obviously this was the Department of Corrections version of counting coup, Neal thought.

Hearing more footsteps and voices coming down the hallway, Neal realized he had managed to find the corridor where the guards canteen and locker room were. As more guards, and some of the marshals came through, he knew this was not the best janitor's cupboard to be hiding in. He would have sighed if he weren't afraid of sneezing on the dust from brooms and mops and giving himself away.

Neal shifted slightly in the small space, trying to see out a tiny crack in the cupboard door. He held his breath when his elbow made contact with a broom, causing what to him was a loud screech. Fortunately, the returning warriors hadn't heard the noise. He slipped carefully out of his closet and set off down the hallway in the opposite direction.

He retraced his path back towards a main corridor, one that would lead to the guards exit. That hallway he knew well – it was the one he had escaped successfully out of five years ago. It was the one where Mantino had held the door open for him. Yeah, Neal could understand why the guard disliked him.

More noise. Damn! This hallway was fast becoming the freeway at rush hour. The first door Neal tried was locked and he thought sadly about the lock picks; he had left them in the same niche Jones had hidden them in. Moving to the next door down, he was relieved when the handle turned in his hand. Slipping inside, he realized he had found the guards' restroom and shower. There were no cameras in here – he would be able to wait until the coast was clear.

ooOoo

Desmond sat perfectly still, his eyes closed; it was hard to see if he was breathing. Of course, it wasn't like he could move much anyway – his hands were cuffed to the ring on the table and his ankles were shackled. However, on the positive side, no one had hit him or tazed him. Mantino wasn't in the room.

When the door clanked open, Desmond opened his eyes. Warden Haskly and the head of the Marshals seated themselves across the table from him. Another marshal and a guard stood just inside the door. Desmond sighed – couldn't they tell he wasn't going anywhere.

"Would you please state your name for the record." Marshal Thompson requested, indicating the microphone positioned in front of Desmond on the steel table.

"Desmond Francone," he rumbled into the mike.

The marshal leaned into his own mike. "This interview is being conducted by Marshal Thompson and Warden Haskly," he stated.

Desmond remained still on his side of the table, looking placidly at his inquisitors. All he could do now was answer their questions to the best of his ability and hope for the best. Well, and hope that someone outside this room was working on his behalf.

Sudden and insistent pounding on the door of the interview room caused all three men to jump. Desmond smiled when he saw the three people the guard admitted. Usually his prayers weren't answered quite so quickly – and so efficiently.

"Excuse me, sir," Peter Burke said to the Marshal, "but it's imperative that I speak with Warden Haskly right away."

Thompson looked irritated, but nodded his assent. "Go ahead."

"I'm sorry, but I need to speak with the warden in private." Peter didn't look particularly sorry as he continued, "And I need to see him immediately."

Thompson's irritation escalated to anger. "Burke," he objected, "this is highly irregular. We need to have two individuals in the room for this interview. We need to make sure everything is done correctly – down to the last dotted 'i' and crossed 't'."

"I know, sir, which is why Agent Berrigan is here."

Diana stepped forward and offered her hand to the Marshal. "Diana Berrigan," she said with a professional smile. "I'm happy to be your second interviewer," she continued briskly, "and I can help guarantee there are no abuses under the color of law."

Marshal Thompson's face took on an unnaturally ruddy shade as he tried to hold back his anger. "Agent Berrigan, I assure you there will be no abuse of any authority while I am here!"

"I'm sure of that too, sir, but certainly you recall that preventing that abuse is one of the FBI's duties. It's imperative everything is done correctly." She looked calmly back at the Marshal as she echoed his words. He opened his mouth, then closed it again without saying anything. He nodded.

"Warden, sir, if you'd come with me," Peter invited.

The smug look on Haskly's face was slowly fading as he realized there was no way he was going to avoid talking with Agent Burke. However, he could try.

"And what is this man doing here?" the warden asked as he started to stand up. He inclined his head at the final member of Peter's group.

"This is Dante Haversham," Peter explained as Mozzie stepped forward. "He's here to make sure the prisoner's civil rights won't be violated."

"An attorney?" Haskly asked incredulously. "The man's a prisoner, Burke. He doesn't have any civil rights!"

"Prisoners are entitled to due process of law, Warden." Mozzie reminded him. "The Supreme Court ruled in – "

"I know the law," the warden interrupted. "This whole situation is ridiculous! Thompson?" he began.

The Marshal watched this conversation, a look of understanding dawning on his face. "Haskly, everything seems perfectly in order. Go with Agent Burke." Thompson turned back to Desmond, whose face now wore a relieved smile.

ooOoo

Neal realized this room was only a temporary haven. Right now the restroom and showers were not in use, but as more of the guards came off-duty, some of them were going to want to clean up – certainly someone would need to pee! However, at this moment the room was empty and unwatched; he couldn't ask for much more than that.

The very back of the locker area wasn't visible from the door, which made it the perfect place for Neal to hide. It was as far away from the urinals as he could get and a mirror on the far wall gave him a partial view of the door. He would have a few seconds warning if someone came in. Now was the best opportunity he was going to get to collect his thoughts and figure out how to get out of here. He really missed his cellphone. If he could just call Peter – .

The door knob rattled and turned. Neal pressed himself against the wall, watching as a pair of guards came in. From his vantage point it appeared they needed to relieve themselves. Okay, so maybe this wasn't the most relaxing place to hide. Their mission accomplished, the two men left the room. He waited a few minutes to see if anyone else was going to come in. When it seemed safe, Neal came out of his corner and headed towards the door. He was going to have to trust his luck – maybe he wouldn't run into anyone.

His hand was reaching for the knob when it started to turn again. So much for luck. He made himself as small as he could behind the opening door, hoping the newcomer wouldn't see him. He watched as the armor clad guard walked into the locker room, then moved to slip out before the door closed.

"Caffrey!" The guard turned quickly and grabbed his arm. Neal froze, a deer in the headlights.

It was Mantino.

ooOoo

"Come on, Derner, the fun's over, back to your cell."

Derner may or may not have agreed, but the large hand gripping his upper arm was a strong selling point. Bobby guided his prisoner to a utility room where another guard stood watch over a small but growing group of inmates. The two guards worked together like a pair of Border Collies – Bobby rounded up the strays while the other guard kept the herd together.

Bobby took a quick headcount when he added Derner to the flock. He and his co-worker had rounded up twenty unruly prisoners, efficiently and without unnecessary violence. Bobby knew it could be done; he just wished some of the other guards shared his beliefs.

"Okay, let's move 'em out," Bobby said.

"Form a line!" The other guard ordered. "Let's go, ladies!" Bobby grinned as the other guard goaded the men into motion. As long as there was no violence, Bobby wasn't against a little sarcasm. He toggled on his radio to report the capture of the prisoners, then listened for a minute to the other guards reporting in.

"Bryant, can you get them back where they belong?" Bobby paused in his tracks.

"Sure. Where're you going?"

"Heard there's some loose ones near the locker area and commissary," Bobby replied. "I think that's where Mantino was. Don't want him breaking anymore heads."

The other guard grunted assent as Bobby turned and headed back down the scuffed linoleum of the hallway.

ooOoo

"Agent Burke, what is so important that you had to pull me out of there?"

The anger in Haskly's voice didn't reach his eyes. He had returned to his office with Burke, plus agents Jones and Blake. His eyes shifted from the desk drawer to the cabinet and back in a guilty tango, unlike Peter Burke, whose eyes never left the warden's face, the other agents standing at his side. A flash of light and a rumble of thunder drew everyone's attention to the window. The tableau was broken; a storm was coming.

"Where is Neal Caffrey?" Peter asked steadily, "You were supposed to bring him out."

"I had a riot to deal with," Haskly said. "Probably started by your man Caffrey," he added bitterly.

"Why would Neal start a riot?" Jones asked. "He was here undercover. He wouldn't have any reason to cause trouble."

The warden's eyes slid to his desk drawer again. A spattering of fat raindrops brought them back up to the window.

"You know Caffrey, Agent Burke," Haskly answered. His voice took on a confidential, wheedling tone. "You work with him. You know he's going to do everything his way." He smiled expectantly at Peter. "He'd start a riot if it served his purpose."

Peter hesitated for the briefest of moments. He did know Neal – music boxes, Nazi treasure – Neal did have a way of doing things, his way. The riot was his fault, if only accidentally. But most – _most – _Peter acknowledged ruefully, of what Neal did was for the right reasons. Haskly couldn't say the same about himself.

"Warden Haskly, who exactly is looking for Neal Caffrey?" Peter asked. A strong gust of wind rattled at the window.

"All the guards have instructions to keep on the lookout for Caffrey, and to inform me as soon as he's located," the warden replied quickly. That much was true, but the guards were busy right now finding loose prisoners. They weren't looking very hard. He knew Caffrey's friend, the guard Kingston, was looking. But so was Mantino. Haskly remembered the young inmate who died under suspicious circumstances on Mantino's watch. Thunder rumbled again, closer now.

Enough of this, Peter thought. "Agent Blake," he instructed, "search the warden's desk."

"Just hold it, Burke," Haskly objected, stepping forward, "you can't do that. My desk is private property!"

"On the contrary, this is a Federal prison, I'm a Federal agent. That gives me the right." Not strictly the truth, but Peter hoped his bluff would make Haskly concede and give him permission.

Lightning flashed, lighting the plains and valleys of Haskly's face, which suddenly seemed to fold in on itself. "Go ahead," he conceded.

Blake began opening drawers, sifting through pens and post-it notes, while Jones stood close to Warden Haskly. Peter remained where he was, halfway between the office door and the rain-battered window, watching Haskly carefully.

"Agent Burke," Blake said finally, "there's nothing here." Peter just looked at the younger man with raised eyebrows. "Sorry," the young agent amended quickly, "the computer drive isn't here."

Warden Haskly made an odd choking sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh, drawing Burke's attention back to him. Lightning flashed outside the window.

"Where is it, Haskly?" Peter's eyes bored into the warden's.

"Maybe your boy Caffrey has it! He certainly had enough time to find it." Warden Haskly's body, which had been stiff and unyielding through out the search, suddenly relaxed. He looked calmly at Peter Burke. "I'm glad it's finally over," he explained simply. "The whole thing was a mistake the beginning."

Peter stared at him for a long moment. The wind outside howled. "Cuff him, Jones." he directed. He ran a hand over his mouth and chin. Only one problem remained.

"Where's Neal, Haskly?" Peter asked again.

"I honestly don't know," he replied. "I hope Bobby finds him before Mantino does. Mantino isn't going down without a fight, and it looks like Caffrey has the evidence against him." Haskly took a deep breath. "I really don't want to see anyone else hurt, Burke," he said.

Thunder crashed; rain pelted the window. The storm was upon them.

ooOoo

For a long minute, neither man moved – except for the smile growing on Mantino's face.

"Of all the cans, in all the towns, in all the world, and Caffrey walks into mine. How did I get so lucky?" Mantino's smile reached monumental proportions. His grip on Neal's arm tightened. "Why do you look so sick Caffrey?"

"I can't believe you would defile a classic like that!" Neal shuddered with horror.

"Well, I certainly don't want to offend your delicate sensibilities, such a smart guy like you." Releasing Neal's arm, Mantino kept right on smiling.

Neal smiled back, his eyes on the door to the hallway, just beyond his reach – and just beyond Mantino.

The guard followed Neal's gaze. "Go ahead and try it, Caffrey," he suggested with a laugh. "But don't think I'm going to hold the door open for you this time." The smile faded. "You caused me a lot of grief, you little smart ass," he continued. "A lot of people found it very funny that I held the gate open for the escaping prisoner. A lot of people laughed, when they should have been respecting me." Mantino's eyes darkened. He pulled the billy club from his belt, idly swinging it while he talked.

"But I got over that, you know," Mantino went on, "because at least you were gone, after that fool FBI agent fell for your con." The guard smiled again. "Then something better came along, those credit cards. I make a hell of a lot of money with those credit cards, and the stupid card owners don't even know they're being ripped off." This was obviously a source of pride for Mantino. "Then suddenly you're back here, ready to ruin that, too!" The swinging club in the guard's hand took on a menacing motion.

Neal watched the swinging club, gauging its movement, looking for a break. He didn't see one. There was no way he was going to get past Mantino and out the door without a fight – a fight he was likely to lose, since the guard was dressed for a riot and he was hampered by the account book in his jumpsuit. And, of course, the door was shut tight. The only opening was the clearance between the bottom of the door and the linoleum below it. If he were an _ifrit_, a _jiini_, he could turn himself into smoke and slip underneath. Otherwise, not so much, he thought sadly.

But maybe he could get the account book out. If he timed it just right, he could slip the book out underneath the door as he charged Mantino. It wasn't suicidal, he told himself. Not quite. But it was the only way he could think of. He hoped someone would find it and give it to Peter. He hoped Peter would appreciate what he was doing.

A low, rumbling sound caused both men to stop and look at the door.

"Dammit!" Mantino swore. "What did they blow up now? You and Francone sure made a mess of this prison!" He took a breath to calm himself. "I'm gonna kill you now," he informed Neal. "I just have to make it look unintentional." He was reaching for the radio clipped to his shoulder when another rumble, punctuated with a resounding crash, caused Neal to jump.

"Thunder!" Mantino proclaimed. "Don't tell me you're scared of a little storm, Caffrey?" he asked.

Neal shook his head mutely. It wasn't the storm that made his heart pound and his throat constrict – it was the idea of what he was about to attempt that had the adrenaline flooding his system.

Boom after boom of thunder seemed to rock the building. The lights flickered, then everything was in darkness.

Neal made his move, throwing himself down and sliding in the direction of the door.

The lights flickered back on as the prison's secondary generators began providing power. Mantino's baton swung at Neal's arm as he shoved the book and the cloner underneath the door and out into the hallway.

Mantino's arm came up again – he caught Neal with a viscous blow beneath his right ear.

ooOoo

Shouts, howls, and catcalls filled the prison as the power failed.

Bobby hurried along the hallway, his hand following the wall for guidance. He knew that the prison's multitudes of electronic doors defaulted to the locked position in the absence of power. That was great for keeping prisoners where they belonged, not so good if you were trying to get to a certain place in a timely manner.

Lights dimly came alive, brightening to full strength as the generators powered up. The yelling continued, like children disappointed that playtime was over. Bobby just smiled – a lot of the prisoners were like children – and right now he had to find his problem child.

The closer he got to staff areas, the more guards and marshals he encountered. It seemed the worst of the mayhem was over. This was a good thing, Bobby acknowledged, but it made it harder for Neal to blend in – too many guards , not enough prisoners. Bobby didn't know why, exactly, but he had a feeling that Neal was down here somewhere. Of course he would be in the most dangerous place possible. Darn the man anyway!

ooOoo

Neal heard the thunder, then saw the flashes of lightning. Wait, that couldn't be right, could it? Thunder came after lightning, he was almost sure of it. He moved his hand up to rub his face. The wave of nausea that simple movement generated made everything painfully clear. Painful being the operative word – the flashes he was seeing were the result of the blow to his head.

Someone moaned, someone else laughed. Neal was pretty sure he was the one who moaned. He was also pretty sure he knew who that laugh belonged to.

"Come on, Caffrey, get up!" Mantino goaded. "I need it to look like you put up a fight and I had to defend myself. "But you, you're just pitiful."

"If I stay here on the floor, that means you won't beat me to death?" Neal asked hopefully. The throbbing in his head and the throbbing in his arm were dancing in a syncopated rhythm of pain that he was having a hard time thinking around. Lying here on the floor for an hour or two would certainly be nice.

"Oh, my God, Caffrey, man up!"

The guard stared down at him disdainfully. He looked impossibly tall, Neal thought. But that was probably the concussion talking.

"No such luck, Caffrey. I'm going to kill you," Mantino continued. "It's only fair after what you did to me."

Neal hauled himself up to a sitting position, leaning against the wall by the sinks. Somehow, he avoided retching. Probably because he was too busy watching the crazy man. It seemed that somewhere along the way, Mantino had crossed the fine line from sadistic to unstable.

"I got some flak for beating up that pitiful excuse for a man you set up to do your dirty work for you, Caffrey. I'm not going to put up with the same thing for you. So just get up!' Mantino's voice rose on a slightly hysterical note.

Zeus. Neal had almost forgotten the younger man, but then, everything was so muddled in his head right now. Zeus had died trying to stop Mantino. Zeus had been innocent.

Neal's head cleared as anger and adrenaline kicked in. His head and arm might hurt, but his legs were just fine. He kicked out, catching the guard just below his kneecap with a viscous blow. Mantino roared with pain, off balance but not down. He raised the baton again as Neal surged up and forward, catching the guard just below the waist.

Mantino's breath escaped with a loud whoosh. He staggered back against the door and whooped for breath. Neal hooked a foot behind the other man's leg and pulled him down, sliding back to the floor himself. He looked over, realizing Mantino still had the damn club in his hand. Neal raised an arm to defend himself as Mantino aimed for his head once again.

ooOoo

"Hey, Bobby! You off duty already?"

"Nope, not yet, but I really hate this gear. I wanted to drop this stuff off before I went back to my block." Bobby tossed his vest onto a pile of other discards and placed the helmet on a shelf.

"Your block locked down?"

Bobby picked distastefully at his uniform shirt, damp with sweat, before reattaching his radio. "I think so," he answered. "Bryant was heading back that way. Just gonna give him a hand."

"More power to you, man," the other guard said, "I've worked a double shift, I'm going home, not even stopping for a shower."

Bobby raised a hand in farewell as the door shut behind the other man. Readjusting his utility belt, he slipped his baton into it's holder. He stared at the taser for a moment, then clipped it to his belt. He didn't like the thing, but something told him he should carry it.

He left the equipment room and headed away from the cell blocks. There weren't too many places Neal could hide along here, so it would only take him a few minutes to check. He wondered if Neal had made it out of the prison; if he found him back in the block he would smack the man – making him walk all this way!

The hallway leading to the showers was empty, except for some garbage on the floor. Might as well check there, too, Bobby thought. No one would fault him for not being thorough. His steady pace increased as he got closer to the locker room door. It wasn't just garbage on the floor, it was a book. As he reached down to pick it up, he saw another, smaller item. It looked like a flash drive. Nope, it was the cloner that had caused everyone so much grief!

Eyes narrowed, Bobby looked at the smoked glass of the door. Even though he couldn't hear anything, he was sure he saw motion through the glass. He turned the handle and carefully stuck his head through the doorway, his other hand on his baton.

"What the . . .?"

"Bobby! You gotta help me. He attacked me!"

Bobby caught Mantino's arm before the man could bring it down on Neal Caffrey's skull. Mantino was standing over Neal's slumped form. Neal had blood running down his face and one hand raised in defense.

Mantino gasped as Bobby hauled him back and shoved him against the wall; his baton pressing against the smaller guard's throat.

"What the hell, Kingston?" Mantino croaked. "He attacked me; I had to defend myself!"

"Yeah," Bobby agreed calmly, coldly, "I can tell."

Mantino squirmed and kicked at Bobby, making contact with Bobby's knee.

"Enough!" Bobby roared, shoving the smaller man roughly down between two sinks. He pulled his cuffs off his belt and cuffed Mantino to the drain pipe. The obscenities Mantino spewed were both colorful and creative.

"That was pretty clever, shoving that stuff out in the hall," Bobby commented as he leaned over Neal. "You okay?" he asked as he helped him back up into a sitting position.

"Yeah, I'm great." Neal winced as he leaned his head back against the wall. "You got the book and the cloner?" he asked, his eyes shut.

Bobby poked gently at the gash at Neal's temple. "That's gonna need some stitches, pretty boy," he commented. "Yeah, I got them both. Looks like this thing is finally over."

Mantino made a low, growling noise and wrenched unsuccessfully at his cuffed hand. Neal jerked away involuntarily.

"You want me to taze him?" Bobby asked.

"No," Neal responded feebly, "I'm good."

"Yup," Bobby smiled, "I can tell." He unclipped his radio and called for back-up and a medic.


	9. Chapter 9

Prisoners of our Own Mistakes

Epilogue

The rain was past and twilight was fast approaching as Peter moved purposefully through the ranks of emergency vehicles parked just inside the prison gate. He felt a certain, wholly unprofessional delight watching Jones and Blake load Warden Haskly into the black SUV that would take him to the Federal holding center. It was equally satisfying to see several marshals escorting a battered Mantino to one of their vehicles. He didn't think the guard – no, the former guard – would get the death penalty for the two prisoners he had killed, but he would spend the rest of his life behind bars. That life wouldn't be pleasant.

But, where was Neal? Agent Wesley had told Peter that Caffrey had been located and removed from the prison, but Peter had no idea where he had ended up. The annoying tingle of concern in his stomach was quickly mutating into an ache of fear as he scanned the gathered FBI and police personnel and he realized that his friend wasn't among them. Did he run? Now? Peter banished the idea as quickly as it had occurred to him. Neal wouldn't run until he knew everyone else was okay; he had certain standards, after all.

There! Perched inside the open doors of an ambulance was Neal Caffrey, Sara on one side of him, a paramedic on the other. Neal's head was down and Sara was holding on to one of his hands. Seeing the paramedic work, Peter realized Neal must be hurt. He broke into a trot.

"Neal!"

Sara looked up as he called out; Neal did not. She bent down close to his ear and he lifted his head. Dried blood trailed down one side of his face. Sara gave his hand a quick squeeze as Peter came up to them and stepped away, leaving the two men in relative privacy.

Placing his hand on Neal's shoulder, Peter turned to the paramedic.

"Is he okay?"

"We're just trying to sort that out," the man replied. He noted Neal's blood pressure on a clipboard and unfastened the cuff from his arm. "I think the head laceration could use a few stitches," he continued. "I'm also thinking there might be a minor concussion." He waved his penlight in front of Neal's eyes. Neal flinched back with a hiss of discomfort.

"Neal?" Peter asked in concern.

"It hurts, Peter," Neal replied irritably. "I got hit in the head with a billy club."

"Yup, definitely a concussion. You need a CT scan of your head," the medic said, "and you need that cut stitched." He moved to help Neal up and into the ambulance.

"No!" Neal cried out sharply, rising quickly to his feet. "Peter, I . . ." Any other protests were lost as Neal swayed dizzily where he stood. He would have hit the muddy ground if Peter and the paramedic hadn't each caught one of his arms. The two paramedics moved him onto the stretcher and prepared to load him in the ambulance.

"Peter, I can't," Neal hesitated, "I don't – I just want to go home, sleep in my own bed." He held out his left leg. "Put the anklet back on, I'm not going anywhere." He looked at the other man in mute supplication.

Peter's heart ached for his friend. "I understand," he said. "I'll make you a deal. Let them scan that hard head of yours, and let them check out your hand. If there's no serious damage, I'll make sure you don't have to stay."

Neal looked owlishly stubborn.

"Don't be an ass, Caffrey."

Both men turned to look at the person approaching them. Peter didn't recognize the large man, dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt.

"Hey, Bobby!" Neal greeted him with a tired smile.

"Hey, yourself," he replied. Peter realized this was Neal's friend the guard.

"I told you that was going to need stitches," Bobby reminded him, pointing to the cut on Neal's temple. "And you have to be ready. You don't want to disappoint your lady friend, do you?" He indicated Sara, standing a few feet away, with a tip of his head and a sly grin. Sara smiled and waved her fingers. "I like her," Bobby said.

"So I understand," Neal replied.

Just then, with a squelch of gravel on wet pavement, the van carrying Mantino pulled out of the prison gate and onto the highway.

"Good riddance to that," Bobby said with feeling. Neal nodded in agreement.

"Hey, Bobby," Neal asked suddenly, "what happens to Desmond?"

Bobby's big, booming laugh rang out, causing several people to jump and turn to look in his direction. "Well, I don't think he's going to get a pardon and a Presidential medal, but close. That lady agent, Berrigan, and your little lawyer buddy really worked that marshal over. Desmond won't lose any of his privileges, and I think maybe they found a way for him to be eligible for parole." Bobby laughed again. "I hear those two working together was something to see."

Peter and Neal exchanged glances – Peter's bemused, Neal's rather proud. "You know," Neal began, "Mozzie really is a pretty good . . ."

"Stop!" Peter held up his hands, "I don't want to hear it." Neal just smiled.

"Neal," Bobby said, placing a hand on Neal's shoulder, "I'm going home. I'm tired and I have a lady of my own waiting for me." The guard grinned and looked Neal in the eyes. "Let them check you out at the hospital, then get the hell out of here." He turned toward the employee parking. "And don't come back!" he called out as walked away.

"Thanks, Bobby!" Neal called back. Bobby just raised an arm in response.

"Neal," Peter began, "you really ought to listen to him."

"No problem," Neal replied. "Don't send me back here again."

Peter rolled his eyes at the obvious re-direct. "I meant about the hospital."

Neal turned his head sharply to glare at his friend, and winced in obvious pain.

"Fine," he conceded, "just keep your end of the deal."

"I will," Peter promised. He turned to the paramedic. "Where are you taking him?"

"Phelps Memorial," the medic replied. "I just need to radio ahead." He headed for the front of the ambulance.

Peter looked over at Sara, still standing off to one side.

"You okay, Sara? Do you need a ride?" he asked. "You haven't had a particularly easy day, either." Neal turned to look at her too.

"It wasn't so bad, once I figured out Desmond was on my side," she smiled.

"He promised me you'd be okay," Neal explained. "He's one of the good guys."

"Yeah, he is," she agreed. "Don't worry, I'll catch a ride with Diana and Clinton." She looked off towards the city. "I imagine Mozzie's already gone."

Neal nodded. "There are way too many Feds around here for him. I imagine he's back at June's, drinking my wine." He laughed a little, then winced, rubbing his forehead. "This job ought to come with a helmet," he suggested. Sara gave his good hand another quick squeeze.

"See you soon, Caffrey," she said as she walked away.

"Agent Burke," the paramedic had contacted the hospital. "We need to get moving."

"Yeah, sure," he answered distractedly. Peter took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air cleared by the storm.

"Wait!" he said suddenly. Peter realized that wasn't the only air that needed to be cleared. "Neal?"

Caffrey opened his eyes to look curiously at Peter.

"I'm sorry," Peter said.

"Peter, you didn't hit me."

"No, but I sent you into this."

"I volunteered," Neal said wearily. He was getting tired of explaining this.

"You volunteered because you felt you had to – that you had to prove to me you were willing to do anything."

"Peter . . ."

"Just let me finish. I was pissed at you because of Elizabeth and Keller,"

"and the lies and the betrayal," Neal finished for him.

"Yeah," Peter agreed. "But that was no reason to send you into a dangerous situation without any backup. I made a mistake, a big one."

"Not as big as mine," Neal countered.

"Dammit Caffrey, this isn't a competition!"

"Agent Burke, we need to go," the paramedic insisted.

"Neal, I'll see you at the hospital. And I promise I won't do anything like this again."

"You'll try," Neal said, holding up his hand to stop Peter's protests. "And so will I."

Both men knew just what it was they were talking about. And both men would try.

_End note – Thanks to everyone who stuck through this story to the end. It was never supposed to take this long, but life has to throw it's little dramas at us. Here's to enjoying Season 4!_


End file.
